


Stars Come Falling Down From The Sky

by theredwagon



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/pseuds/theredwagon
Summary: Four months have passed since the events that took place in the story "In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone' and our Musketeers are once again in peril as it's revealed that there is a spy in their midst. Aramis and d'Artagnan have been betrayed and captured by the Spanish while Athos and Porthos are unaware of the danger from within as they search for their missing brothers.





	1. Chapter 1

Stars Come Falling Down From The Sky by theredwagon

 

Disclaimer; No money be made, no harm intended.

Title; Lovingly borrowed from the song 'Still I'm Sad' by the amazing Yardbirds

 

Chapter 1

 

Henri Pierre Bernard does not consider himself a man who is easily frightened.

When he was a boy of just six he'd fearlessly killed the fox that had been terrorising their hen-house with only his wits and a slingshot. By ten, he was taking on the older boys in the village who'd taunted his cousin for being a bit on the chunky side due to his fondness for pastries, and at fifteen he'd used his father's ancient pistol and a broken broadsword to scare off a pair of intrepid thieves from his family's farm. He'd been chosen as a Musketeer cadet at twenty two and a full-fledged member of the regiment at twenty four and has seen many skirmishes and faced countless enemies in his service to the Crown. Now, at twenty seven, he's survived eight months of combat on the bloodiest battlefields this war had spawned, men against cannons, infantry facing cavalry, but he's never shirked his duty, never run away from the fight or turned his back on his brothers.

Today, however, Henri is not feeling particularly confident or brave. Just the opposite, today, he's properly terrified.

He's lost many comrades since they'd left Paris the previous spring, including one who he'd considered a brother from the day they'd met at the garrison as cadets and he'd almost lost another that he'd come to love just as dearly. He and Laurent and Marcel had been friends since their training days and they'd added d'Artagnan to their group when the younger man had received his pauldron and moved to the garrison and into their barracks. The three friends had known that d'Artagnan had a special place beside the so-called Inseparables - their current Captain and his trusted Lieutenants - but they were also aware of the fact that he was a great deal younger than his older comrades and the youthful friendship that Henri and the others had extended to the newly commissioned Musketeer had been appreciated and reciprocated.

A few months earlier, their small group of friends suffered their first misfortune; d'Artagnan had been badly wounded and had teetered on the edge between life and death for days, the entire regiment fearing for his survival, since his wounds had been sustained saving his comrades from a battle they could not have won. Just as d'Artagnan had begun to slowly recover, they were struck by another tragedy, the loss of Marcel, who'd been cut down in a surprise attack on their camp that had also left their Captain seriously injured. Thankfully, for the sake of the regiment and for the men who cared deeply for their Captain, Athos had made a full recovery, as had d'Artagnan after a long and arduous struggle to regain his health. But the loss of Marcel, Henri's very first friend in Paris, weighed heavily on the young man as well as upon Laurent, who'd become sullen and withdrawn for weeks after, and d'Artagnan, whose struggle with poor health had been further burdened by their shared grief.

As for Henri's current predicament, and the reason for his distress, well, the truth is that he's faced down the Spanish with less trepidation and fear. Inside the flimsy canvas walls of the Captain's tent, two of the most intimidating men in the entire French army are waiting for him to share the report he's received from the afternoon patrol. He hesitates just a few moments longer, trying to regain his composure since the news he has to impart has also affected Henri in a deeply personal way. It's freezing, the ground blanketed in a few centimetres of fresh snow, and the low temperatures in northern France are not what most of the regiment is accustomed to, but that's not why he's trembling, nor is it from fear; it's the thought of enduring more loss that makes his body shake like an autumn leaf dangling on the edge of an empty branch, just moments from falling from its perch to wither away and die.

The tent flap opens abruptly and Henri, startled, comes face to face with the intimidating figure of Porthos du Vallon.

"Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, boy?" he asks sharply and Henri doesn't reply, he just ducks into the Captain's tent, his face set in a grim expression.

He salutes Athos stiffly and his Captain, seated at the desk that d'Artagnan had somehow managed to have sent from Paris for his mentor, nods and indicates that he should be seated, and Henri gratefully complies.

"Out with it lad, I know you've been standing outside for near quarter of an hour, care to explain why?" Athos queries, one brow raised.

Henri swallows. "My apologies, sir," he says contritely. "It's just that the news I have to impart is not what you…or I…had hoped for," he adds quietly.

Porthos practically growls in reply and Henri physically flinches.

"Spit it out, boy, or I'll have you digging latrines for the rest of the war!" the big man says angrily.

"Sorry sir," he replies at once, thoroughly chastised, and clears his throat. "The afternoon patrol has returned from their search for our missing Musketeers. They found two horses, a pile of weapons and a…a substantial amount of blood in the snow," he says so softly he barely hears himself speak. He can't help it, the words are broken glass in his throat.

"Where?" Porthos asks abruptly.

"Three leagues northeast of here, just within our borders."

Athos' expression doesn't change, he's deceptively calm and it's very unnerving. "And were you able to confirm who the horses and the weapons belonged to?"

Henri nods slowly. "Yes sir, the horses are unfamiliar, probably changed at our outpost, but they carried regimental saddle bags with identifying marks and they contained items that were easily recognised. The weapons, sir, they're personalised and distinctive to two particular soldiers of our regiment," he explains with dread and he clears his throat again before he continues. "As a result of the search and subsequent investigation, it's my duty to inform you that he horses, personal belongings and weapons belong to, without a doubt, Aramis and d'Artagnan," he says finally. Now that he's said it, it becomes real, the full force of the information he's just imparted hitting him like an avalanche and he feels like all the breath had been knocked from his lungs.

Porthos breaks the momentary silence with a sweep of his hand across the top of a barrel covered with tin cups and plates, sending the tableware flying across the tent in a shocking outburst of rage, the clattering of the metal hitting the ground followed by a string of curses that Henri has never even heard before. Athos is chillingly composed, his expression blank and his blue eyes cold.

"How much blood is a substantial amount, lad?" he asks carefully.

Henri can't meet the older man's gaze. "Hubert says enough to kill a man…but we can't know for certain whose blood it is or if there was a fight or even if it's human, it could easily be from an injured horse or from a wild animal…" Henri is saying, babbling somewhat incoherently, anything to make that cold, dead stare in the Captain's eyes disappear.

"Were there any other signs of a struggle or a battle, pistol wadding, shot balls, disturbed bushes or undergrowth?" Porthos demands to know.

Henri shakes his head miserably. "No signs that there was an extended firefight and there was very little in the way of undergrowth or foliage, it's rocky terrain sir, a convenient place for an ambush. Hubert was very thorough, he and Jacques and Bonet went over the entire area meticulously. They also searched a large swathe of countryside around the spot where they found the horses, for hours, looking for any possible signs of them, clothing, blood…bodies," he add much quieter, "but nothing sir, they've just…disappeared."

"Men don't just disappear! They're either killed or taken as prisoners but they don't just vanish! Were there no tracks in the snow or on the road?" Porthos asks with barely controlled fury.

"Yes, sir, but some ended at the river, others seemed to overlap as if they'd gone one way and then turned right back around….there was no clear trail to follow."

"The tracks could belong to anyone, Porthos, dozens of soldiers, bandits, refugees walk and ride along the borders daily. They could have doubled back to confuse us, or possibly had a vessel waiting at the river. They might even be holding them in any of the many ruins along the road," Athos says, mulling over the possibilities. "Henri, have Hubert give the scouts a full report and then have them sent to me at once. Also, if Aramis and d'Artagnan had changed horses then the dispatches have probably already been delivered and haven't fallen into enemy hands. We can't know this for sure though unless we send riders to the outpost to confirm," the Captain says, considering. "Send four men, our best riders, to the outpost outside of Arras immediately to make inquiries. I want to know every detail of their stopover there as well as anything suspicious that our forces may have seen in the surrounding areas. "

Henri nods and suddenly remembers the grain sack he's holding tightly in his left hand.

"Captain, Hubert told me…he said you should probably…that you'd want be given…" he stutters, not sure how to continue, when Porthos takes two steps forward and yanks the sack from his hand.

Henri watches, in utter despair as Porthos reaches into the sack and removes the blood-stained item within; Aramis' hat.

Porthos tosses the sack aside and handles the sturdy leather hat gently, probably searching for holes or tears that might indicate a head injury, but aside from the blood on the brim, there is no other damage to Aramis' beloved head-wear.

The Captain is still completely emotionless, his expression hasn't wavered even for a second but Porthos looks stricken and Henri feels the depth of his despair. Aramis is a well-loved figure in the regiment; quick witted and jovial, and he is also a man of God whose faith has been a source of solace and hope for even the most hardened soldiers amongst them, and Henri has a great deal of affection for the man. D'Artagnan on the other hand is not everyone's favourite, there are many who are jealous of the lad's position in the hierarchy, but to a man, he is revered for his loyalty and his bravery, the likes of which most of the men have never seen before.

"Very well, go on now, lad, you have your orders, tell Hubert to confer with the scouts and send the riders to Arras," Athos reminds him sternly, rising carefully from his chair. It's been nearly four months since his injury but there are moments that Henri sees a stiffness in the Captain's movements that indicates some amount of lingering pain; the injury, a slash across his torso, had been ghastly, and Henri imagines that the skin and muscle probably still feel the sting of mending flesh, but Athos does this utmost to hide his discomfort from his men.

"Yes, sir, I'll make all the arrangements immediately," the young man replies, suddenly feeling a fierce rush of emotion and the sting of tears, and he stumbles over his words. The ever-astute Porthos notices and rests one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"We'll find them, boy, our scouts are the best in the army. They're not dead, that's for sure, the pair of them have more lives than a pack of stray cats combined, trust me, I know," he says reassuringly and Henri meets his gaze and suddenly feels hopeful.

"Yes, of course we will," Henri replies confidently, and he salutes his superiors and hurries to search for Hubert. The quicker the scouts are on the road, the faster Aramis and d'Artagnan will be safely returned to the regiment.

 

*************************************************

 

Aramis wakes to the oh-so-familiar ache of a battle-incurred injury, something his tired and battered body has sadly become far too accustomed to.

He opens his eyes slowly and tries to take stock; he's not in the infirmary in the French camp, the stone walls, heavy wooden door and tiny barred window near the ceiling attest to that. Night has fallen but lamps have been lit around the corners of the cell and Aramis can see well enough to take stock of his surroundings. Surprisingly, he's lying on a bed, a proper one with a straw stuffed mattress, covered by a clean-smelling blanket and his clothes are hanging neatly over the back of a chair beside him. Clad in only his drawers and an unfamiliar shirt, his jewelled crucifix still around his neck, he discovers that his shoulder wound, caused by a pistol shot, feels as if it's been stitched and cared for properly and is wrapped in a clean bandage. It takes a few more minutes for him to remember exactly what had happened, but when he does he bolts upright, a move he regrets at once since it leaves him breathless with pain, but he pushes it aside and calls out a name.

'D'Artagnan!" he cries, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wondering if the boy is somewhere close, maybe in the cell beside him, and he prays that he will hear him call out and he'll answer, so that Aramis will know that he's alive and safe.

When no reply comes Aramis calls out his name again, louder, and he attempts to get to his feet, intending to dress himself, when the heavy wooden door swings open, startling him.

"There is no reason to be alarmed, Senor," a uniformed Spanish soldier says politely, entering his cell. The door remains open but it's guarded by at least four heavily armed men, Aramis notes, and he sinks back down onto the bed, knowing that he is in no shape to take on even one of them.

"Where is the lad I was with?" Aramis demands defiantly in perfect Spanish, his bare feet freezing on the cold stone floor.

The Spanish officer takes a few steps closer. "In the cell beside you. He's quite the menace, your comrade, fought like a lion protecting her cub when we separated the two of you, I'd not have expected it from someone so…unimpressive," the Spaniard says with a sneer.

Aramis wants to reply to that slur but he bites back a retort, fearing for the boy's safety. "Is he injured?"

"He attacked four of my men, he'll be sporting an considerable array of bruises for many days to come."

"If you're planning on a prisoner exchange, I assure you it's in your best interest not to harm him any further," Aramis warns sternly, knowing full well that he is far from intimidating, clad only in his underwear and with a serious injury to his shoulder, but that doesn't stop him from speaking up on behalf of his younger brother.

"My dear sir, I don't think you are in a position to be giving me advice or your opinion. Now, I have it on good authority that the pair of you were carrying important orders…oh yes, a spy in your midst," he adds when Aramis literally feels his jaw drop in shock.

"We carried no orders, and if we had you would have found them already on our persons or in our saddlebags," Aramis replies smoothly, composing himself after his unintended lapse in self-control. "You have been sadly misinformed I fear."

The Spaniard, a ruddy, heavy-set man of around fifty, nods slowly. "Or maybe you'd already delivered these orders before you were intercepted by my men. My spy is very reliable, Senor, I know for a fact that you and that stable-boy were carrying classified correspondence."

"Even if we were carrying orders, and I insist on my honour that we were not, how would we possibly know what was inside a sealed military pouch?" Aramis asks, grasping at straws.

"A spy, remember? Of course you would know, you are Aramis, lieutenant and second-in-command to the infamous Athos, Captain of the Musketeers, the Comte de la Fere, and that street urchin is d'Artagnan, the wretched boy who killed one of my finest officers. What a happy coincidence that it was the pair of you sent out on this mission, I couldn't have planned it better myself as I've been biding my time, waiting to get my hands on that murderous little bastard!"

"You have referred to him as a stable boy and a street urchin when your 'spy' should have informed you that he is one of the most highly decorated soldiers in our regiment, and more valuable than myself in a prisoner exchange," Aramis informs him proudly, trying his utmost to hide the horror he feels that the Spanish are aware of the boy's identity.

The Spaniard laughs. "That skinny, long-haired, unkempt…creature is a highly decorated Musketeer? He's a dishonourable ruffian who killed a titled Spanish officer in an unfair duel," he spits. "Truly, if I was a less patient man I would have had him on the rack the minute I was informed of his name."

"D'Artagnan fought fairly and honourably! A dozen of your men witnessed the duel and they brought no objection to the outcome!" Aramis counters angrily. "At any rate, even if I had the knowledge you seem to think I possess, what is my guarantee that you'll let us live?"

"My word is your guarantee. I think it's in your best interest that you share what you know and maybe we can come to some sort of agreement?"

Aramis narrows his eyes. "What kind of agreement?"

"Apparently you are of noble Spanish blood, and a man of God I'm told," the Spaniard says pleasantly.

Aramis raises one brow. "Your spy?"

The officer chuckles. "No, the boy, when you were unconscious and he was bargaining for your life. He told my men that you are the product of a marriage between a noble Spanish Lady and a French father, and that you'd dedicated your life to God and the Catholic church until you were taken, against your will, from the monastery at Douai and forced back into the King's service due to your skills as a healer."

Oh God, stupid, reckless boy, using half-truths to save his life…in exchange for what?

"And what did he offer as a bargaining chip?" Aramis asks tersely.

"Himself," the Spaniard sneers. "Brash fool, I already have him in my custody, and what I'll do with him aside from beat him till his skin peels off or hang him and throw his body to the wolves is beyond me."

Aramis feels all the blood drain from his face and he wills his entire body to remain utterly still; if he lunges for the Spaniard's throat he's sure to seal the boy's death warrant as well as his own. "So what kind of agreement were you going to offer me?"

"Simple. Give me the information I desire and I will set you free, unharmed. My spies will spread the word that it was the boy who gave up the French secrets, he was the traitor, not you, and that he died of dysentery or some other foul disease. You, on the other hand will have your reputation intact and your freedom, you need never spare the brat another thought."

Aramis feels disgusted and sick; that this man would think he'd offer up d'Artagnan like a lamb to the slaughter willingly makes him physically ill. But he continues to play the game, he must see where it will lead. "My other option?"

"Your only other option is to remain here in this cell, indefinitely, to be used at some point in time in a prisoner exchange. I won't be responsible for torturing a monk," he says, crossing himself as he does so.

"And d'Artagnan?"

"His fate is sealed, my dear compatriot, there is nothing you could possibly offer me would prevent that!"

"He's just a boy, surely if you had a son or a nephew his age you'd want a gentleman such as yourself to show mercy?" Aramis reasons. "He didn't even chose to fight that duel of his own accord, it was me who arranged it, you can ask any of the men who were present. If someone is to be punished for the death of your officer, it should be me."

"What an odd coincidence; the boy said the same thing, that he should be punished and not you, when I mentioned your part in that farce of a duel. You see, Senor, I already knew all the details, my men were very thorough in their report of the events of that horrible night."

"If they were so thorough why did they not tell you it was a fair fight?" Aramis challenges. By this time, his shoulder is throbbing, he's chilled to the bone and desperately needs to lie down. But not until they come to some agreement on d'Artagnan's fate. "Look, if you reconsider your plans for d'Artagnan I might be willing answering some of the questions you may have, say, regarding troop movement," he lies smoothly, in an attempt to buy some time for his brother. He's sure that Athos and Porthos have become aware of their disappearance; there is no way that the Captain will leave them, or any of his regiment for that matter, to die in a Spanish prison.

A soldier appears at the door carrying a tray of food, another behind him with medical supplies. Both await orders from their superior officer.

"No, that's out of the question. You have until tomorrow morning to consider both the options I have put forward. As for the brat, I'm sorry, you cannot bargain for his safety or his freedom, only for your own. He will be punished for his crimes, regardless of what you choose to do."

"Then take all that away. If he is to be mistreated I won't be catered to while he suffers," Aramis says defiantly, waving a hand at the two soldiers carrying the trays."

"Senor Aramis, staying alive and fit is not an option; you are of no use to me dead. Now, if you do not eat or you don't allow your wound to be treated I will take it out on your beloved comrade. If you cooperate, I will allow him some bread and water, if you don't he will receive 5 lashes for your stubbornness."

"You said you will punish him either way. What's another 5 lashes?" Aramis says bitterly. "I'll suffer alongside of him."

"Well, since he's unconscious at the moment I hadn't planned on getting started just yet, but if you insist?"

"NO!" Aramis cries out horrified and he berates himself for his foolish outburst. "I'll cooperate, please, just leave him be, and give him some food and water, I beg of you, as a Christian and a gentleman, surely you can look past your need for revenge and see him as he is; an orphaned lad, penniless and with no prospects, forced into the military when he had no other options."

"Good Lord, the two of you are quite pathetic, aren't you? Begging to take the other's punishment, pleading for each other's lives; do the French have no sense of self-preservation or self-respect?"

"We're Musketeers," Aramis replies proudly, "All for one and one for all is our motto, so no, we're not very big on self-preservation."

The Spaniard chuckles at Aramis' reply and waves the soldiers into the cell, indicating that they should put the trays on the small table.

"My physician will treat your wound and you will eat what you've been provided and I will see that the brat is given bread and water, agreed?"

"Agreed," Aramis says, feeling lightheaded from exhaustion and pain and hunger, but mostly from his fear for d'Artagnan.

"I will return in the morning for your decision, though I suspect that you've given me your answer already. I very much doubt you'll be giving up the boy in exchange for your freedom, so maybe I will take under consideration your counter-offer after all; information for better treatment of the wretch, we shall see how generous I am feeling after a good night's rest."

"I will pray for our Lord to offer you peace this night so you will show mercy to those whose fate you hold in your hands," Aramis bites out, struggling to sound sincere when all he wants to do it gut the bastard and leave him to die…slowly.

"I wish the same upon you, Senor Aramis, so that we might find mutual ground when the sun next rises," the older man said with false pleasantness, and he departs, leaving Aramis to be forcefully tended to while d'Artagnan suffers injured and alone.

 

***************************************************

 

D'Artagnan can't remember the last time he'd felt so cold.

They'd spent most of the winter on the frozen and muddy battlefields, in the rain and in the snow, but the adrenaline and the fact that they were constantly in motion, always running or fighting or moving on to the next bloody skirmish seemed to keep the cold at bay, and at night, in their tent, Porthos, the worrying fool, would pile all their extra clothing onto of his slowly healing body, his brother's thoughtfulness providing far more warmth than the flimsy pile of shirts he'd so carefully layered on top of him.

There's no Porthos and no blankets or extra shirts in his freezing cell, and only his doublet and his cloak for warmth and a pile of straw in one corner as a bed, his bruised and aching body shivering violently as the wind blows into the room through the small window with the broken glass near the ceiling, bringing bursts of snowflakes now and again, until the freezing stone floor is partially covered in a shiny white blanket of snow.

He barely remembers the attack on the road after they'd successfully delivered the dispatches that Athos had entrusted to them. They'd been heading south, away from the outpost east of Arras and back to the Musketeers camp; Aramis had been shot and he himself had taken a blow to the head when they'd been ambushed by at least 20 Spanish soldiers who'd been lying in wait for them. How they'd known where to find them, d'Artagnan has no clue, but it was obvious that they'd been expecting them or at least tracking them and somehow they'd been aware of their identities as well. It was inconceivable to even consider a traitor among his fellow Musketeers and d'Artagnan tried to think anyone from outside their regiment who could have possibly known of their mission.

Dragged off their horses, they'd been searched bodily, their saddlebags and saddles and tack thoroughly examined, and they were thrown into a cart, transferred to a barge and then forced to walk, Aramis barely conscious, bleeding heavily and d'Artagnan carrying most of his weight for the last half hour or so of their ordeal until they'd been deposited, together, in this cell somewhere deep within this unknown Spanish stronghold.

With Aramis in dire need of medical assistance d'Artagnan weaved a tale of half-truths to get sympathy from his jailers for his part-Spanish, almost-a-monk, devoutly Catholic brother and he'd succeeded and Aramis had been tended to by a proper physician, his wound cleaned and sewn shut neatly and carefully. When the physician was done a haughty officer with an expression similar to a permanent sneer entered the cell and informed him that he was aware of their identities, their roles in that blasted duel, and he gleefully imparted to d'Artagnan that they would pay their long overdue debt to the lash for killing a Spanish officer.

In a desperate attempt to spare Aramis a whipping, d'Artagnan had pleaded with the Spaniard to let the injured Aramis go free, reminding him that his brother was a holy man, warning the Spaniard of the wrath of God as well as all the other dire consequences his actions would have, anything he could remember from his catechism lessons and he offered to take punishment for both of them; Aramis would never survive the lash in the state he was in and d'Artagnan would die before he'd let them whip the injured and incapacitated Aramis for something that what entirely his responsibility. The Spaniard seemed to blanch when d'Artagnan mentioned God and hell and the devil and the older man had crossed himself and swiftly left them alone in their cell.

At some point they'd come to take Aramis away, and d'Artagnan had panicked, terrified and anxious for his unconscious brother's safety, and he'd launched himself at the guards, foolishly and recklessly, and he'd been given a thrashing that his body will not be forgetting anytime soon. One eye is swollen shut and his left shoulder is dislocated, the rest of his aching body littered with ugly, swelling bruises and he thinks some ribs might be cracked, he can't be sure though since Aramis is not at his side to examine them or put his shoulder back into its socket. Someone has left some bread and a small metal pitcher of what he assumes is water, but he is in too much pain to lift himself up to eat or drink, despite the persistent rumbling of his empty stomach.

The heavy wooden door creaks open and is immediately shut. A candle illuminates the pitch black of his cell but d'Artagnan can hardly muster the strength to care. Whoever it is, d'Artagnan is sure it's not a social call.

A uniformed figure kneels beside him and brings the plate of bread and pitcher of water closer to where he lies listlessly on the mouldy straw.

"I only have a moment," a voice says in accented French, "so tell me if there is something I can do to help."

Shocked, d'Artagnan opens his good eye and blinks, trying to make out the face of his benevolent visitor. It takes him a moment to place the face, but when he does, he is thoroughly surprised.

"I know you," he says slowly, his mouth dry and his voice rough. "You were there, at the duel, you were beside your Captain, you're the Lieutenant. It was you who told Athos about the poison."

The Spaniard nods.

"You saved my life, thank you, if you hadn't spoken I would be dead," d'Artangan says, grateful. "Do you know if my friend is alright?" he asks anxiously.

"The Spanish monk? Yes, he's fine, the General is a religious man, your friend is very lucky. Now, quickly, tell me if you need any of your injuries treated!" he hisses, his gaze darting to the door fearfully.

D'Artagnan swallows. "My shoulder, it's out of its socket, can you put it back for me?" he asks hopefully.

The other man appears horrified but he nods reluctantly and with great care lifts d'Artagnan up to lean back against the wall.

By the time he's seated, d'Artagnan in practically whimpering in pain, but he's doing his valiant best to keep as quiet as possible. "Do you have something I can bite down on?" he asks the Spaniard; if he screams he'll bring the entire stronghold down upon them.

The Spaniard nods and quickly removes a small, flat leather sheaf, meant to hold a dagger, from inside his pocket. He's obviously come unarmed, probably in case d'Artagnan would attempt to use his own weapons against him; smart man, he thinks.

"Thank you," d'Artagnan says gratefully and accepts the small, leather case. "Have you ever done this before?"

The Spanish officer shakes his head. "No, but I've seen others do it, many times. Should I try?"

"Yes, please," d'Artagnan replies and he puts the leather case in between his teeth. "Alright, on three?"

The Spaniard nods grimly and d'Artagnan bites down hard as the other man counts, evenly to three, and pulls d'Artagnan's misshapen shoulder forward and back into place.

The pain is so excruciating that all the air is punched from his lungs, the leather case falls from his mouth and his head flies back, slamming hard against the rough stone wall and he see stars, tears running in rivulets down his filthy face and yet not a sound escapes his dry and aching throat. The Spaniard takes a cloth, maybe a handkerchief, from the pocket of his coat and wets it from the pitcher and he cleans d'Artagnan's face carefully, wiping away some of the grime and dried blood until the fine white material has turned almost black and the officer appears satisfied that he's done his best.

"Listen, I must go. Eat, I don't know when you'll be fed again, the General is cruel and has no respect for the treaties concerning the treatment of prisoners of war. I'll try to come again tomorrow, alright?"

"Bless you, friend," d'Artagnan whispers harshly, still panting from his ordeal, sweat matting his hair despite the frozen air and the snow-covered floor. "Once again you've come to my aid."

"Tomorrow I'll find a way to close off that window from the outside, but now I must go," he says anxiously.

D'Artagnan nods in understanding, but he has an urgent question for the man before he goes. "Why are risking yourself to help me?" he asks softly, confused but extremely grateful.

The Spanish officer stiffens slightly. "You fought bravely that night, and my Captain wronged you, it's my duty as a gentleman to make amends," he explains with complete sincerity and d'Artagnan is thankful that the war has not stripped this young officer of his humanity, as it has done to so many men on both sides. "Now eat and rest, I must go!" he says and the door creaks open and shut, and d'Artagnan thinks the sound of the metal bar coming down on the other side sounds a bit like a guillotine falling.

He hopes that isn't a sign, foreboding his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends apologies that there are no tildes on the n in the Senor in this chapter, when I figure out how to do it I will fix it, apologies to anyone who is a Spanish speaker/reader!

Aramis and d’Artagnan have been gone for three full days now. Actually, Athos doesn’t know precisely at what point they’d been ambushed, but they’d departed the Musketeer’s camp three days earlier, delivered their correspondence to the Captain of the small French outpost the same day and spent the night within the safety of the stronghold. Early yesterday morning they’d saddled fresh horses since one of theirs had thrown a shoe and the other seemed to be suffering unduly from the cold. They bid the Captain farewell and headed back towards the Musketeers camp. Aside from their horses and belongings, no one has seen them since.

The fact that no bodies have been found is the only thing keeping their hope alive. Henri chose to lead the patrol that Athos had ordered sent to the outpost himself. Athos had wanted them to ride out the previous afternoon, as soon as Hubert and his men had returned with Aramis and d’Artagnan’s horses, but a fresh snowfall prevented the anxious Henri from departing with Lacroix, Laurent and Pierre and they’d been forced to wait until early this morning. The four young Musketeers had just returned an hour earlier, sometime near dusk, disappointed that they’d received no helpful information, aside from the fact that the dispatches had been safely delivered. On the road to and from their destination the Musketeers hadn’t found any new clues, nor had the scouts that had been scouring the area all throughout the day.

Athos and Porthos have spent the past two hours conferring with the scouts in the mess tent. They’d gone over maps, discussed possible hiding places - an old mill and a derelict monastery – between the Musketeers camp and the area around the main Spanish stronghold of Arras that the Spanish could be using as an outpost or a way-station between the French troops and the walled town. Athos was almost certain that his Musketeers were not actually within the walls of the Spanish-held Arras…yet. The General has his own spies, diligently following every movement in and out of the fortified walls of the most important Spanish garrison in their immediate area, and comings and goings have apparently been limited in the past week, with no sign of the two Musketeers being taken into the town. Porthos confirms this by riding to the General’s camp himself to meet with the spies, who assure him that neither them nor any of their comrades who patrol the area around the clock have seen any sign of Aramis or d’Artagnan. The fact that they are almost certainly not within the walls is a huge relief to Athos; mounting a rescue mission inside of Arras would be suicidal and logistically impossible. 

The scouts are four men who are military trained and hail from the areas around Arras. They are not Musketeers and they report directly to General Dubois and are ‘on loan’ so to speak to the Musketeers whose own scouts are exemplary but do not know this northern terrain like Michel, Alphonse, Denis and Nicolas do. These are pseudonyms since the men fear for their families and their property, seeing as their homes are so close to Arras and the Spanish troops stationed there. They wear non-descript clothing and always have their faces covered, even from their superiors so Athos has never seen them without their hats, cloaks and scarves tied around the bottom of their faces.

Porthos cannot hide the fact that he doesn’t trust them. He doesn’t doubt their skills; they are cunning and stealthy and move like ghosts around the countryside and have not disappointed the Musketeers in any way since they’ve be assigned to the regiment . But Porthos had complained to Athos on more than one occasion that it’s unnerving to speak to these men who hide their faces behind dark, muslin scarves; if you can’t see a man’s expression, he insists, you can’t tell if he’s lying or telling you the truth, if he’s an honest man or a thief, and these four men hold the lives of thousands in their hands. They do no interact with the rest of the regiment in any way, shape or form; they eat, sleep, bathe and pray on their own they even have their own latrines as they do not want anyone to see any recognisable scars or marks they might have on their bodies. Athos tends to agree with Porthos to some extent but he also understands that these men have families to protect, the job they do is very well paid but comes with a high personal risk, he can’t blame them for being cautious. They are also probably their only hope of finding Aramis and d’Artagnan.

Athos and Porthos have not discussed what a prolonged absence of their brothers could mean. It hasn’t been necessary. They are both fully aware of the fact that although they might have been alive when they’d been taken – a hope they’d been clinging to due to the absence of anything to prove otherwise – one or both of them could easily be dead by now. Or the Spanish may be torturing them for information, something they’d become quite notorious for despite the treaties that had been signed laying down a set of standards for the treatment of prisoners of war. If the amount of blood found in the snow is any indication, one or both are probably injured, something that makes Athos even more apprehensive, as he doubts their wounds would be treated properly.

Aramis fortunately has been, for the most part, fit the past few months, which is to his advantage if he’s been injured but d’Artagnan has only recently began to eat normally and he’s managed to regain only some of the endurance and the strength that had eluded after the injuries he’d sustained four months prior. He’s still far too thin and lacks the stamina he’d had when they’d left Paris but he’s lost the gauntness that had made Athos physically cringe and his colour had returned, the waxy-paleness giving way to the return of his natural, swarthy Gascon colouring. 

The only reason Athos had allowed him to accompany Aramis on his urgent mission instead of Porthos was due to Porthos’ ill health, that and the boy’s irritating and insistent needling that he be allowed to go and his heated complaints that Athos was treating him like something broken and fragile. If he had done so, it was not consciously, because although Athos had a very special place in his heart for the lad, he is also exceedingly careful not to show any deference to him since doing so would sow discontent, something Athos would not tolerate in his regiment. In the end Athos had relented, and he hopes to God that his decision hadn’t caused any undue harm to come to either of his brothers; although Aramis is an experienced soldier and superb marksman he would expect d’Artagnan to have his back and by the same token he shouldn’t have to take care of a weakened d’Artagnan. The fact that Aramis himself had encouraged the decision to take their youngest along does nothing to soothe Athos’ conscience in any way.

It’s snowing again and it’s far too late into the evening to make any further progress tonight so it has been agreed that the scouts will check the areas they’d mapped out together at first light. Porthos has borrowed a cot from the infirmary and made Athos’ tent his temporary home until the others are found as he refuses to miss even one update or report given to Athos. He’s asleep now, exhausted from his mad dash to the main French camp earlier to meet with the General’s spies, as well as under the weather. He and at least a dozen other Musketeers had been suffering from a bout of winter ague; chills, fever and a sore throat and it’s the first time the big man has actually slept soundly in the past few days. If Athos had accidentally put a drop of Aramis’ special sleeping potion in Porthos’ wine, well no one is the wiser, and his brother desperately needs the rest, especially since he’s insistent on going along with the scouts on their morning mission. Athos will likely send Henri along as well; someone will need to keep an eye on Porthos and the scouts, while decent men, are not going to worry about Porthos’ health whereas Henri is not only one his best soldiers, he is one of the kindest young men in the regiment, he’ll watch over Porthos as d’Artaganan or Aramis would if they could. 

…and as they will again, as soon as they’re found, safe and whole.

 

*************************************

 

Aramis has spent the entirety of his second day in captivity confined to his sickbed. His shoulder injury had started to show signs of infection and the physician had reopened the wound , cleaned it and sewn it shut again, and to do it he’d forced a sleeping draught down Aramis’ throat – literally at gunpoint by one of the Spanish officer’s men, and with the threat of harm to d’Artagnan as an incentive to swallow.

By nightfall he’s awake again, fevered and restless, and a literal army of men comes to tend to him with the haughty Spaniard standing watch at the door of his cell, supervising. Any protest from Aramis is followed by threats to his brother so he simply gives in for the moment since it’s the best way he knows to keep d’Artagnan safe until they’re rescued. 

He’s asked the physician repeatedly if anyone has seen to the boy but although the old man appears sympathetic he says nothing. He is a skilled healer and he works quickly and efficiently and Aramis is sure the infection will pass quickly. The only problem with that if he’s lucid and well, the Spaniard – a important and titled General the physician had informed him earlier in the day - will expect him to give him his decision regarding his and d’Artagnan’s fate. For the moment, he plays possum and tries to appear much sicker than he really is when the General sits in the chair beside his bed and requests exactly that.

“I’d given you until this morning to decide how you wanted to proceed, Senor, and I’ve been patient due to your fevered state. However, my physician informs me that despite your condition, you are well enough to discuss…business with me,” the General says in an arrogant tone. “Now, what do you say, my dear sir?”

Aramis pries his eyes open, blinking theatrically and he pulls the blankets up to his neck, shivering and sinking deeper into the mattress. “With all due respect, can this…wait…until tomorrow? I fear…I am too…unwell to think clearly, Senor,” he says, stuttering the words through chattering teeth, doing his utmost to convince the loathsome Spaniard that he is too ill to be fully coherent.

“I hope you’re not trying to deceive me, Senor Aramis, because if you are, the boy will receive those five lashes I’d promised last night. Now, are you truly too ill or are you trying to buy that wretch a reprieve?” the General demands of Aramis.

“Lying in a sin, Senor,” Aramis says with contrived affront.

The General rises and paces the floor of the cell, his silence is unnerving to the anxious Aramis.

“And yet, I think that you are lying to me, Senor, despite that fact,” he says finally. “My physician says that you are indeed fevered, but not incapacitated,” he informs Aramis calmly.

Aramis frowns. “Regardless, I do not feel that I am capable of making an informed decision at the moment. I am in a great deal of pain and my head is throbbing from the fever that has taken hold of me,” Aramis informs him weakly, praying that he sounds convincing as d’Artagnan’s well-being depends on it. 

“I wonder if I should test your sincerity, by, say, bringing the boy in here and giving him a good thrashing. Would you suddenly improve and begin to talk? Or maybe even rise from your sickbed and defend the whelp or would you just lie there, listlessly, too ill to raise your head from that pillow. That could be an interesting exercise, indeed.”  
Aramis knows the bastard General is goading him and he’s trying his utmost not to rise to the bait. “If you were to do something like that it would be dishonourable of me to not attempt to shield him, whether I’m physically capable or not. He’s barely older than a child, can you not find it in your heart to show him some compassion?” Aramis asks feebly, continuing his ruse. 

“He’s a murdering bastard! And you keep saying he’s just a boy, but my men say he’s old enough to be married!” the General replies angrily, still pacing. “The more you defend him, the more you provoke me, Senor Aramis, I suggest you spend your time sharing some of your Musketeers’ secrets instead if you want to keep him alive, because it’s obvious you are not interested in going free and leaving him behind. My new offer is this; give me information or he’s whipped every day, three times a day, five lashes at a time, so that he will never heal, every stroke of the whip will fall on some older wound, making a disgusting, infected, pulpy mess of skin on his back. And he will suffer, I promise you that, he will feel every single strike, and in between he will lie on the cold, stone floor of his cell where he will writhe in agony and burn with fever, alone, hungry and thirsty, his wounds festering…”

“ENOUGH!” Aramis roars, and he eases himself up until he’s sitting in his bed, both hands buried deep in his hair, tugging at the sweaty strands in horror and frustration and pure fear. “Enough! I will do what you ask, just please, let him be,” he mutters, desolate. The wound in his shoulder is throbbing and his skin is burning, and he knows he’s fevered again. And he’s expected to negotiate for the life of one of his brothers, their youngest, and the only one of the them that is still mostly untainted by the violence and the brutality of the life of a Musketeer and a soldier and Aramis, desperate to keep him safe, feels utterly lost.

“Alejandro, it seems that our monk has indeed committed a sin; he’s been lying to us,” he says to one of his men, indicating Aramis, who no longer resembles the shivering and weakened patient he did moments before, “and as a result his friend will be punished. Five lashes for the filthy whelp will do for now, and in the meanwhile we will give Senor Aramis a chance to contemplate and repent for his sin while he mends.”

“NO!” Aramis cries out and he swings his legs over the side of the bed, quickly losing his balance and he crashes to the floor, his head hitting the uneven stones violently and he momentarily loses consciousness. 

Seconds later he is being lifted, gently, to his bed and the General commands that the physician be summoned to see to the cut on the side of his face and the swelling on his temple. His shoulder has gone numb but Aramis expects the pain to return with full force once he catches his breath. 

But that never happens, because the physician appears at once and a vile potion is once again poured down his throat and despite his rambling protestations, and his fever induced, near-hysterical begging for his little brother’s life, the General appeared unmoved. 

“If you hurt him, I won’t help you,” Aramis warns for the hundredth time, his now words slurring.

“But if I don’t hurt him you won’t help me anyway,” the General replies flatly, “because you have yet to take my threats seriously.”

For the first time in many years, Aramis finds himself without his infamous restraint and his uncanny ability to use his wit and charm to keep control of even the most difficult situations; his injury has rendered his body weak and the fever and the drugs have made his mind cloudy, and he is powerless to do anything to stop the odious General from putting d’Artagnan to the lash. 

The sleeping draught is potent and it quickly takes hold, and Aramis tumbles anguished, and against his will, into a dark and dreamless sleep.

 

***********************************

 

D’Artagnan spent the previous night huddled in the corner farthest from the open window, the two frozen stone walls on either side his best protection against the wind. In the morning, he’d nearly wept from gratitude when he opened his eyes and realised that his unlikely friend had indeed managed to close off the broken window from the outside, using what appears to be a tarp that although thoroughly covers the entire opening, still allows enough light to pass so that d’Artagnan will not be bathed in total darkness.

He’s not much of a praying man, and he doubts with his multitude of sins that he’d ever find his way to Heaven, but d’Artagnan spends the better part of his day begging God to keep the seriously wounded Aramis safe while they wait for Athos and Porthos to find them. He’s become somewhat delirious from cold and hunger and thirst and without realising it, his prayers become a continuous mantra. He prays for Aramis and for a swift rescue before his brother dies. Aramis is a devout man and more so now after his time at Douai, surely God would protect such a man from further harm? He thanks God for the benevolent lieutenant and begs Him to keep the man and his family safe from harm. He prays for the safety of his regiment and his brothers, Athos and Porthos, who he knows will be out of their minds with worry. And he prays for Constance, the kindest and most generous soul in all of France. He’d told her this once and he’d meant it with all his heart, and he asks God to give her strength in the event that he returns to Paris in a box instead of mounted on his horse.

The day wanes and d’Artagnan drifts between sleep and awareness, rising only once on trembling legs to relieve himself. There is no chamber pot so with no other choice he kicks some leaves and twigs into the farthest corner and when he’s done he covers the puddle of urine with the debris that had fallen into his cell in from the window, and he hopes that the dank cell does not begin to reek from the smell. When he’s done he stumbles back to his corner where he holds his injured left arm carefully with his right and huddles miserably under his cloak until sleep takes him again.

At some point in the evening the heavy door opens and he’s shocked awake as four soldiers enter his cell and drag him to his feet. His shoulder is jarred painfully and he bites the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out. Behind them, the General strides in, carrying a lamp, and d’Artagnan can see his face is twisted into a mask of rage. The soldiers release him and d’Artagnan struggles to stay upright but his pride doesn’t allow him to fall.

“Strip down to your drawers,” he demands in perfect French and d’Artagnan goes rigid with shock.

“I’d rather die,” the Gascon says defiantly, as he imagines what removing his clothes could mean.

The General steps forward and deals him a hard blow to the face that sends him hurtling backwards towards the wall.

“Filthy degenerate, we are Christian soldiers, you French pig!” he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. “Now strip or my men will do it for you!”

With no other choice, d’Artagnan slowly begins to remove his clothes, dropping them into a pile in the corner until he’s only wearing his shirt, stockings and drawers.

“Everything aside from your underclothes, off!” the General demands and d’Artagnan complies, wondering if he could manage to break the General’s neck before his men kill him. He’s tempted, by God he wants to rip the man’s entrails out but he wills himself to remain calm, mostly for the sake of his brother, whose fate is still unknown to him. 

Standing in only his drawers, expression defiant, he is pushed out of the cell and into the freezing corridor by the General’s men and he’s marched up the cold stone steps and shockingly, outside into the darkened courtyard. He walks over the snow covered ground as steadily as he can but his bare feet have gone numb and he stumbles, only to be righted viciously by one of the soldiers, who drags him forward by his injured left arm.

A few more steps and he pushed against a post, his hands pulled above his head, wrenching his injured shoulder and this time d’Artagnan cannot stop the scream that escapes from his dry and aching throat.

“Your friend, the monk, has failed you, filthy wretch, and you will pay the price for his stupidity,” the General hisses. He takes a long, leather horse whip from one of the guards, making sure that d’Artagnan can see him running his hand over the smooth strip of hide like he’s caressing a lover. 

D’Artagnan remembers seeing some of his comrades sporting marks from the lash, some so deep that even decades later their backs are still scarred. A few of them even still complain of pain, whether phantom or real, but he’s never felt the sting of the lash himself and in all honesty he’s afraid, not of the marks or the pain, but afraid that he won’t be able to retain his dignity when the sleek leather falls and rips the skin from his back.

Five hard strikes come, each one like fire licking across his back, tearing deep into his skin, through flesh and muscle, and it happens so fast he never even gets a chance to scream. When they cut him down he’s panting and gasping for breath but nothing, not even a whimper escapes his throat, the shock and the erratic pounding of his heart stealing all the breath from his lungs and rendering him mute. He is dragged back to his cell in a daze by two of the soldiers who throw him onto the pile of clothing he’s left behind. The General enters, using a cloth to wipe away d’Artagnan’s blood from his hands, and when he meets the Gascon’s defiant gaze, he lets out a booming laugh.

“Your friend said you are a highly decorated Musketeer. All I see is a skinny, dirty whelp with an unnatural tolerance for pain. Are you one of those degenerates who uses pain for pleasure?” he queries.

D’Artagnan wants to ask him how such an upstanding Christian gentleman such as himself would even now about such things. The bastard has mistaken pure shock for some sort of twisted pleasure, obviously too stupid to realise that his body’s reaction to the pain was wholly physical and not in any way unnatural. He knows the agony is yet to come, when the adrenaline rush wears off and his breathing and heart rate slow, and the damaged flesh begins to try to mend itself, swelling painfully, pushing out any dirt and debris stuck in the wounds, crusting over with painful, itchy scabs. He’s had enough similar injuries from swords and daggers to know exactly what it will feel like…only worse. 

D’Artagnan just lays there, his chest and face thankfully resting on his discarded clothes, shivering ferociously from the cold and trying desperately to catch his breath. He is unaware of the fact that the General and his men have left and that someone else has entered his cell.

“Peace, it’s just me,” the lieutenant from the previous evening tells him quietly. “I’m here to tend to you, I warned the General that his fun would end quickly if your wounds became infected and you died too quickly,” he says, and d’Artagnan can hear the disgust in his voice.

“Please tell me…have you seen my comrade…is he well?” d’Artagnan inquires desperately, stuttering the words out in between harsh pants.

“He’s fine, I told you, the General is terrified to harm him, he fears the wrath of God, the pompous ass.”

“What’s your name, friend?” d’Artagnan asks, his voice a coarse whisper, his breath still coming in bursts and gasps.

“Miguel, and I know from the others that you are d’Artagnan,” he says kindly. “This will hurt, my friend, brace yourself,” he adds, clearly pained.

“I know, just do it,” d’Artagnan replies dully.

“I must work quickly so you don’t’ freeze to death,” the Spaniard explains succinctly, “we need to get you back into your clothes as soon as possible. Listen, I know you’re married, you told the Captain that your wife is a fearless young woman, tell me about her, it will take your mind off the pain,” Miguel encourages, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water.

The wet cloth gently wipes across the bleeding welts on his back and d’Artagnan can’t help it, he cries out.

“Come on, now, friend, I saw you kill a man double your bulk while you were near death, surely you can withstand the sting of a bit of water on your wounds?” Miguel cajoles, his hands moving quickly and efficiently. “Now tell me about your girl, I’m guessing she was a child bride by the looks of you?”

“No, she was a widow, actually, when we finally married,” d’Artagnan replies with great effort.

“Ahh, so an older woman then?” Miguel teases.

“Only by a year or two, she’d been a child bride to her loathsome first husband,” he says whispers, his teeth clenching as he remembers Bonacieux and his nastiness. 

“And how did you meet?”

D’Artagnan can’t stop the moan that escapes when Miguel begins to rub something foul-smelling into the wounds. “I kissed her,” he slurs, “I grabbed her in the market and kissed her to save my hide. Then she threatened to gut me for taking liberties, it was love at first sight,” he says, the memory bringing a warmth to his soul that he hasn’t felt in months. “She saved my life, multiple times, she’s the most fearless woman I’ve ever met. But she was married, and I was madly in love with her for a very long time before we were able to be together as man and wife.”

“Ah, so you became a couple as soon as her husband died?”

“No, I am ashamed to admit that we carried on without the blessing of marriage even before his was murdered by…bandits,” he tell him, not wanting to explain the whole sordid affair behind his nemesis’ death. “We finally married the day I rode off to war,” he adds, teeth chattering from the cold.

“True love, d’Artagnan, cannot be judged by man or even by God,” Miguel says kindly. He’s done with the salve and is now bandaging the wounds. “You’ll need to sit up, my friend, so I may wrap the cloth around your chest and keep the bandages in place. I promise to be quick,” he adds sympathetically. “Tell me, what does this feisty lady of your look like? Is she dark like you or pale like the English or maybe olive-skinned like the Spanish?”

D’Artagnan allows Miguel to help him sit, doing his best not to utter one sound as the Spaniard manoeuvres him upright. His pride and his dignity are already in tatters, and he expects that much worse is yet to come.

“Pale as alabaster, dark blue eyes like the sea at dusk, red-brown curls like the finest imported silk,” d’Artagnan says sincerely.

“You have the heart of a poet, it seems,” Miguel tells him fondly.

“No, that is what she truly looks like my friend, the most beautiful and the bravest and kindest woman in all France.”

Miguel smiles indulgently and d’Artagnan gets his first good look at the Spaniard since the night of the duel. He’s looks to be about Aramis’ age and has similar features and colouring, aside from his eyes which are green. The Spaniard quickly and efficiently wraps the bandages around his torso and then helps him slide his shirt over his head. 

“And you, Miguel? Are you married to some lovely Spanish beauty?” d’Artagnan asks, panting with the effort to get his breeches and stockings on. Seeing his struggle, Miguel pushes the Gascon’s hands aside and put his stocking and boots on for him. D’Artagnan is shocked by the gesture but extremely grateful.

“Well my friend, you haven’t answered my question?”

Miguel’s expression goes blank and he begins to gather the medical supplies. He then puts a cloth that contains a piece of bread and an apple on d’Artagnan’s doublet and removes a flask from inside of his coat.

“My wife and son died of a fever 10 years ago. I left my family estate and joined the military soon after, there was nothing left for me anymore,” he says dully, his heartache blatantly obvious on his handsome face.

“I’m so very sorry to hear that, my friend,” d’Artagnan says sincerely, not sure what else he could say to ease the Spaniard’s pain. Constance has been in peril far too many times over the past few years and the fear had been crippling. He doesn’t know how he would have survived had she been taken from him.

“When it happened, I prayed for death, but that’s a mortal sin, as is suicide, so I decided that the army was a good place to meet my maker honorably, and be reunited with my beautiful Esme and little Carlos in heaven.”  
D’Artagnan recoils physically. “Please, my friend, don’t tell me that you are helping me to facilitate your death all the quicker? That would simply be cruel!”

Miguel frowns. “Of course not, d’Artagnan, that would be a dishonourable way to die, I’d never do that to you or anyone else!”

D’Artagnan visibly relaxes. “I’m glad to hear that, you’re a fine gentleman and caring soul, it would be a horrible loss to the world for you to be taken any sooner than the time that God has planned for you.”

Miguel sighs and shows d’Artagnan the flask. “This is wine with a pain draught added,” he says, changing the subject, and he pours it into the metal pitcher that had held water the previous day. “Drink it after you eat and it will help you sleep, the pain has yet to fully set in and during the night you will suffer greatly if you don’t take it.”

D’Artagnan nods. “I doubt that I can eat right now so I will hide what you’ve brought for later. Can you help me with my doublet?” his asks, his voice hoarse from dryness and pain.

Miguel shakes his head. “Don’t put it on tonight, it will put undue pressure on your back. Drink the wine and lie down and I will cover you with your doublet and cloak before I go. Hurry though, friend, the others will get suspicious. You seem to lack a chamber pot and fresh water to drink and wash, I will do my best to rectify this tomorrow, I promise.”

D’Artagnan drinks the wine from the pitcher and lies down on the straw carefully, and he turns slightly onto his side. Miguel covers him and shoves the food under his cloak so that no one will see it and take it away from him. The candle that the Spaniard has been using for light has almost burned down completely and the older man hastily gathers his things to go.

“Wait, Miguel, please,” d’Artagnan says, remembering something urgent. He sticks his left hand out from under the cloak and offers it to the Spaniard.

“Can you take my wedding band to my friend Aramis? You said he won’t come to harm, if I die here, I’d like him to take it to my wife,” d’Artagnan says earnestly.

Miguel hesitates, his expression torn, but he nods and kneels down once again and slides the dull and scratched gold band from d’Artagnan’s thin finger.

“I promise I will do my utmost to get it to him, if I cannot, I will return it to you, agreed?”

“Agreed,” d’Artagan says drowsily, the effects of the drugged wine, the exhaustion and the pain finally stealing the last of his strength from him. “Thank you Miguel, God bless you,” d’Artagnan whispers.

“And you my friend,” he hears Miguel say before the candle goes out and the door closes, leaving him alone again in his dark and frozen prison.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Porthos is quite furious that Athos has assigned him a babysitter. 

It’s not that he dislikes Henri, just the opposite, he has great affection for the young man, but he doesn’t like being coddled and Athos didn’t even try and hide the fact that Henri was going along to keep an eye on him. In all honesty though, Porthos is sure he would have gone mad with only the four scouts for company, since they barely speak and keep wholly to themselves. 

Neither he nor Henri are in uniform, they’re dressed like the scouts in plain, homespun breeches and simple woollen doublets and cloaks. Only their boots couldn’t be replaced on such short notice but both men had a second pair that are less ornamental than the ones they usually wear with their leathers, but the quality and the workmanship is still apparent so they’d splattered them with mud to keep anyone they’d meet on the road from recognising them as anything other than farmers and local craftsman on their way home from a meeting to discuss trade with other businessmen in a nearby town.

For the past week Porthos had mostly been plagued by fever and chills, an ague which has kept George and Claude quite busy in the infirmary, and with Aramis gone, the two young medics had needed help, in the form of Jacques, whose aunt was a healer and had imparted quite a bit of wisdom to her nephew. The three of them had managed to keep the illness contained as they’d followed Athos’ strict rules regarding cleanliness and quarantine. Porthos had been declared fit two days prior and he’d immediately left the infirmary and housed himself with Athos because he couldn’t bear to miss any updates regarding his missing brothers. That, and the fact that his tent felt eerily quiet without the boisterous d’Artagnan and the big man could not find rest in there alone.

Porthos refuses to believe that they are searching for bodies and not healthy and whole Musketeers. He himself had been taken prisoner while on patrol in January, along with two very green Musketeers and they’d been traded back to Athos for five men that the Musketeers had captured spying. Their treatment in Spanish captivity had been fair and Porthos expects the same will hold for Aramis and d’Artagnan. It’s what he hopes for, at least. He fears for what would happen to d’Artagnan if he was starved or worse, since he’d only recently regained the ability to eat an entire meal. The vomiting induced by the poison had been so horrendous that it had become a reflex and Aramis had tried everything he knew to will it away. But it had taken months, of eating small meals, numerous times a day and drinking vile, herbal teas sweetened with honey to mask the taste for the lad’s stomach to finally heal and allow him to regain some weight. Porthos has listened to him struggle, almost nightly at first, to keep even water down, and to preserve his younger brother’s dignity he’d pretended to be asleep while d’Artagnan had sobbed quietly in his bedroll, frustrated and angry and disappointed.

Aramis on the other hand, although for the most part healthy, like the rest of them, is not a man who takes to confinement easily. When he’d dedicated himself to God and cloistered himself in the monastery he’d discovered that taking orders from the Abbot as well as staying confined to the grounds went against everything he’d lived and learned up to that point. When his brothers had come to spirit him away he’d agonised only due to the oath he’d made and not from any love of the solitary and obedient life of a monk. Athos had wisely told him that it could not be his true calling if he was even slightly tempted to follow the Musketeers to war and Aramis had made his apologies to the Abbot and to the brothers and to God before riding off with the regiment, making a vow to always keep his faith first and foremost in his heart, no matter where he might find himself. Porthos hopes that he will draw from that faith and be resilient and patient while they search for him and d’Artagnan.

Henri pulls his horse beside Porthos and quietly inquires of his superior officer’s health.

“If you ask me again, boy, I swear on my mother’s grave I will give you a spanking you’ll never forget,” Porthos growls and the cheeky boy has the gall to laugh.

“You spend too much time with d’Artagnan, he’s corrupted you,” Porthos says wearily.

Henri’s mirth slips away and mouth twists into a frown. “We will find them, won’t we sir?”

“Of course, Aramis has been soldiering longer that you’ve been alive,” he says, exaggerating to make his point. “He’s been in worse scrapes, and d’Artagnan is like a cat, always lands on his feet no matter what.”

“But we’ve found nothing, and these men are supposed to be the best at what they do. What if they’re already in Arras? We’ll never get them back if they’ve taken them there,” Henri says mournfully.

“They’re not in Arras, the General’s spies have that place covered on all sides, and his men have orders to engage if they suspect the Spanish are moving them inside the walls. Dubois is terrified that our brothers will give up information to avoid torture, a lot he knows about Musketeers,” Porthos says, affronted. 

“That buffoon knows nothing about us whatsoever,” Henri agrees angrily. “And he has no respect for our lives either, or he wouldn’t have left us alone and exposed for so long, without reinforcements and munitions. If Captain…I mean _Minister_ Treville hadn’t forced him to move his camp closer to our regiment we might all be dead by now.”

Porthos nods and pulls his hood down lower against the chill. “You are absolutely right, lad, but your words could get you court-martialed, so for your own safety, best keep your opinion to yourself, eh?”

“Yes sir,” Henri replies contritely and they both pull back on their reins as one of the scouts, Nicolas, slows and comes to ride beside them.

“It’s late, we’ll camp near those trees up ahead until dawn,” he informs them tonelessly and then once more leaves them to their own company. Porthos and Henri share a look, and the big man knows the lad is feeling just as uneasy as he is.

“I know that the General and the Captain trust them, but they make me…uncomfortable,” the younger man says as they canter towards the spot Nicolas has indicated.

“Yeah, I hear you, lad, but they’ve done their job well up until now, they’ve not given us any reason to doubt their abilities or their loyalty.”

When they reach their destination Henri takes both their horses to tend to them and Porthos walks over to where the scouts are busy making a fire and pitching their small tent. 

“We’ve covered a lot of ground today and nothing, tomorrow we must ride towards the ruined abbey, I have a hunch about that place,” Porthos says and almost at once, Denis baulks.

“I doubt it, the mill is better suited for their purpose, I’ve been there, it’s in good condition,” the masked man says decisively.

Porthos nods and feels that uneasiness settle in his gut again. “Alright, but we’ve got to check both, the Captain’s orders,” he says firmly, his expression challenging.

Nicolas nods. “I agree, Musketeer, the abbey, while quite derelict, is actually easier to defend, the mill has no natural defences, it’s exposed, while the abbey is surrounded by rocky terrain and the walls are high and fortified.”

The other two men grunt in agreement but Denis is quite insistent. “Yes, but it’s barely habitable, it was crawling with rats and there were bats nesting in the rafters, I can’t see the delicate Spanish using such a place as an outpost.”

The other men chuckle and nod but Porthos is not convinced. “We’ll check both, like Athos expects,” he says tightly, and when they all agree, even the reluctant Denis, Porthos turns to where Henri is struggling to pitch their portable tent.

“This isn’t much of a shelter,” the younger man grouses, trying to get the middle pole to stand.

Porthos nods. “It doesn’t really matter, lad, I have a feeling that we won’t be getting any rest tonight,” he tells the young Musketeer. “Listen, I know one of them will be keeping watch over our campsite, but just to be safe, why don’t we take turns sleeping, yeah? I’ve just got this feeling…”

Henri looks over to the fire where the others are sharing a meal from their rations in silence. “I tend to agree, sir,” he says quietly and together they manage to get the tent to stand. After a quick meal of dried meat and bread, the two Musketeers bed down for the night, with Henri agreeing to first watch.

“The slightest movement, the softest sound, you wake me, alright?” Porthos instructs firmly.

“Of course sir,” Henri answers, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other.

“How in the hell can you do that in the dark?” Porthos asks tiredly.

Henri laughs softly. “The same way Aramis can shoot a bottle blindfolded, it takes practice. I once saw a blind man in the market carving little angels, I was in awe and decided to try my hand. I’m not anywhere near as good as he was but I’m slowly teaching myself.”

Porthos sighs and pulls his cloak over his cold and exhausted body. “Good enough for me, I’ve seen your little animals and angels around the camp. In any case, you’ve got a knife in your hand, at the ready, which will help me to me sleep a little bit easier.”

Henri grunts in reply. “Get some rest, sir, or else the Captain will have my hide. And you need to be in top form tomorrow...for when we find our brothers.”

Portho feels his heart clench. “Yes, tomorrow we will find them, for certain.”

 

******************************************

 

For one fleeting, blissful moment when he opens his eyes, Aramis is convinced that everything that had happened to him was just a nightmare.

Until the agonising pain in his shoulder and his trembling and fevered body tell him otherwise.

The physician, Raoul, is dozing in the chair beside his bed. The old man had been there all night, Aramis recalls, even when he’d demanded he be left alone to his pain and his misery. Oh, but the General - Navarro he’s leaned is his name - won’t have his prized hostage alone for even one minute until he’s whole again. 

A bizarre twist comes with his morning meal; a bath. Aramis is appalled that he’s expected to bathe in front of a room full of strangers, and while his brother could be lying in a pool of blood in the cell beside him. The physician orders his bed be made up with fresh linens and requests warmed bricks be prepared to put into the sheets to keep their guest warm after his bath since his cell has no fireplace. It’s like some macabre play being put on, with all the false kindness and comforts he hasn’t had since Paris, the fact that d’Artagnan could be dead or dying making it all the more ghoulish. Defiant, aching and shivering, he refuses to get in to the tub.

“Señor, if you don’t get into the bath the General will be very angry,” the physician warns him cautiously. “He’s away at the moment but these gentleman are here to make sure you do as you’re told,” the old man tells him firmly, and he indicates the 5 soldiers inside the cell.

“How about this; I’ll take a bath if you have a quick look at my friend. I assure you God would look very favourably upon you for this act of charity,” Aramis says, playing on his hosts’ devout Catholicism for some relief for his brother. “Maybe you could have a look at his back, he was flogged last night, though from no fault of his own,” Aramis says bitterly.

“I’m sorry, I cannot, but I can offer you something else instead. The general had one of his officers tend to him, I can bring him to you, and you can ask him anything you want, agreed?” the physician queries.

Aramis feels hope soar. _Please, God,_ he prays silently, _do not forsake our youngest brother, he’s done nothing to deserve what’s happening to him,_ Aramis begs, slowly rising to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Agreed, but these men need to stand outside the door, I was a monk, Señor, and I’m not used to bathing in public,” he says somewhat haughtily for effect.

“But I can’t help you in and out of the bath on my own,” the physician protests.

Aramis also knows that he is incapable of getting into the bath without assistance, so he makes a suggestion. 

“How about you bring that officer to me now, he can help me and he can tell me about by friend.”

The physician looks torn. It’s clear that he knows he needs to get Aramis in and out of the bath quickly and without any undue harm coming to him or he’ll be punished by the odious General like anyone else that defies or disappoints him, and Aramis is counting on his the old man’s fear to work in his favour.

“Alejandro, bring Lieutenant Alvares here at once, before the water goes cold!” the physician commands and Alejandro, a short man with an ugly scar that cuts across most of his face grunts and goes to do the old man’s bidding. The physician instructs the rest of the soldiers to wait in the corridor and they reluctantly agree. Aramis is starting to feel hopeful for the first time since they’d been brought here. Maybe he can use this lieutenant to pass coded messages to d’Artagnan, or at the very least receive information regarding his well-being until they’re rescued by their brothers.

The lieutenant arrives, and the heavy wooden door is closed so that _Señor Aramis does not take a chill_ and as Aramis is stripping off his clothes he realises, shocked, that he knows this man. The Spaniard gives him a look that clearly says ‘keep quiet’ and Aramis, now stripped to the skin allows the physician and the officer to help him into the tub. The water has gone from hot to warm but Aramis knows this is the best temperature for his fever, too hot and it will just rise again. He sighs tiredly and leans back and allows himself one minute to enjoy the feel of clean water on his filthy skin and then he turns to the Spaniard.

“My friend here says you tended to d’Artagnan, God bless you, Señor, is he badly hurt?” Aramis asks tentatively, not sure if this man is friend or foe or simply indifferent.

The physician hands Aramis a bar of soap and urges him to be quick. Aramis takes it and washes swiftly, carefully avoiding his bandaged shoulder. He can’t do much with his hair since he cannot submerge himself due to his wound, but he does the best he can using his good hand and a bit of soap around his neck and behind his ears.

“The boy was flogged,” the Spaniard answers flatly, as if he doesn’t care one way or the other, but Aramis is wily and he can see that the other man is not as detached as he appears. “The General saw the benefit of having his wounds cleaned once it was pointed out to him that the boy will be more valuable to him alive,” he informs Aramis, and he translates that to mean ‘I suggested it’ and ‘I’m trying to keep him alive’. Why, Aramis isn’t sure, but he does know that this is the man who’d told Athos about the poison, their Captain had been very specific in his description; he’d told Aramis that it was the lieutenant with the green eyes who’d been seated on horseback beside the loathsome Alogando. 

The water has gone cold and Aramis is trembling. He accepts the Spaniards assistance when he rises from the tub and he quickly wraps the towel that the physician offers around his middle. With the help of both men he is dressed in clean drawers, stockings and shirt and the physician calls for the warmed bricks to be brought. The Spaniard uses this small distraction to hand Aramis something small and metallic.

“To take to his wife, in the event of his death,” the lieutenant hisses in his ear, pretending to be fixing the bedding.

Without even looking, Aramis knows what he’s holding and he feels sick with dread. “Will he die?” Aramis croaks, horrified. 

“Not if I can help it,” the man whispers and pulls back when the soldiers enter the cell carrying a canvas that holds the warmed bricks. 

With no other choice, Aramis lets the physician fuss over his wound while his bed is warmed. It’s as if he’s part of some farcical pantomime, cared for like a revered guest, his every need tended to. He wonders how long this can go on before he goes insane from the sheer absurdity. He slides the ring onto his smallest finger and it barely fits, but it will have to do until he can hang it around his neck beside his crucifix. It’s the safest place for it, beside the most sacred symbol of their Lord.

And the best way to keep his brother close to his heart.

 

**********************************************

 

D’Artagnan’s day did not begin quite the way Aramis’ had, with a hot breakfast and a warm bath.

He opens his eyes to an all new experience in pain. He’s had many wounds…too many…he acknowledges wearily, but this can’t be compared to anything he’s suffered before. It’s impossible to make even the slightest movement without pulling at the lacerated skin of his back and after a tremendous struggle to relieve himself in the foul-smelling pile of leaves in the corner, he falls back onto the filthy straw and doesn’t move for a very long time.

The door opens and he doesn’t even have the strength to recoil; it could be Miguel but it could be the General, at this point he cares very little. There is not much he can do in any case, his fate is no longer in his own hands.

By some miracle it’s not the General and his entourage, it’s Miguel.

The older man is clucking and muttering at the state in which he finds d’Artagnan and without asking for permission he begins to strip away his fifthly cloak and doublet and pulls up his shirt to get to his wounds. He cuts the bandages away carefully and dArtagnan mumbles a grateful _thank you_ , relieved he won’t need to rise to remove the now-stained linen.

“I’ve given your friend your wedding ring, he was most concerned for you,” Miguel tells him as he washes away blood and probably pus, d’Artagnan thinks disgusted, from his shredded back. 

“Is he well?” d’Artagnan asks with a gasp, the pain overwhelming, “has his wound healed?”

“He’s fine, my friend, and on his way to recovery, don’t worry about him at the moment, worry only about yourself,” Miguel tells him somewhat sternly.

“I’ll live, I’ve had worse,” he replies with a tired sigh.

“Maybe, but not under these conditions,” Miguel grouses. “I’ve brought you a chamber pot and a bucket with clean water, if you’ll allow me to help you bathe I will happily do so, the cleaner you are, the better your wounds will heal.” 

The thought of being jostled around makes d’Artagnan want to refuse, but the idea of wiping away the grime from his battered body is tempting so he agrees. 

Miguel helps him sit and the other man takes a pile of clean rags from the sack he’s brought with him. He wets one and begins with d’Artagnan’s face, neck and torso, and he tosses it aside and wets a clean one for his arms.

He helps d’Artagnan stand and with much difficulty he lets his breeches and undergarments fall around his ankles and quickly gives himself a standard soldier’s bath while Miguel looks away to give him privacy and then tosses the cloth into the pile. Once he’s dressed, Miguel has him lay face down again to rub the foul smelling salve into his wounds and the pain is again at the centre of his world.

“Last night you forgot to tell me the name of the fierce and courageous warrior you married,” Miguel teases, obviously trying to distract d’Artagnan from the agony of having the deep slashes on his back treated.

“Constance,” he whispers, panting. “Her name is as beautiful as she is.”

“My God, friend, if you keep this up you’ll have me falling in love with her as well,” Miguel says with a chuckle and d’Artagnan can’t help it, he laughs weakly as well.

“I would advise against it, Miguel, she is not a woman to be toyed with,” he warns fondly.

“I would imagine not, you’ve described her as a woman as fearsome as the goddesses of the ancients. Does she carry a bow?” he asks, putting the last strips of linen over d’Artagnan’s back.

“No, a sword and a pistol, I taught her myself,” he replies proudly. 

Miguel once again helps him sit while he wraps clean bandages around his torso. “In all honesty I thought you’d been exaggerating but now I see you were not. Tell me, is she truly as you describe her?” 

“In the very first days after the incident in the market, she shot a man to save my life,” he remembers grimly. “It cost her dearly, mind you, up until that moment she’d been a merchant’s demure wife...and servant,” he adds crossly, “but that night, she became something else, someone whose blood soared at the thought of adventure and of course, justice; she’d killed a murderous bandit to save me, not some harmless rogue.”

Miguel seems truly shocked and intrigued. “I’ve never met a woman like that to be honest, my Esme was a quiet and humble girl, but greatly educated and generous. Her father was a nobleman and a scholar, they’d travelled all over the continent together. She knew history and could tell you about exotic places you could never imagine existed. She also spoke four languages, and was teaching all the servants on our estate to read and write, her charity was renowned in our province, everyone loved her,” he says with infinite sadness. 

D’Artagnan feels his eyes fill with tears as Miguel speaks of his wife; his pain is still vivid, even ten years on, a man would have to be heartless to not be affected by the Spaniard’s grief. 

“She was truly a wonderful and generous woman, my friend, I’m sure she’s been blessed with the most revered place at God’s right hand,” d’Artagnan tells him softly.

“I hope so,” the older man whispers. “Have you eaten anything?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.

“Yes, what you left me last night, I woke with a grumbling stomach sometime in the night, thank you, Miguel.”

Miguel removes the flask that he’d brought the night before from inside of his jacket and once again pours the contents into the metal pitcher. He’s also brought a second jug with him, this one, he explains, has clean water.

“Try and keep these out of sight, here in the corner, hidden behind you,” he warns. He then moves a cracked chamber pot a few feet away from him. “If anyone asks you where it came from, pretend it was always here, in that far corner, tell them. I’m allowed to tend to your wounds but not much more,” he says regretfully. “If the General find out I’m helping you there will be trouble.”

D’Aratgnan freezes. “Miguel, if you’re putting yourself in danger…”

Miguel shakes his head sadly. “Not trouble for me, my friend, for you. The General wouldn’t dare hurt a hair on my head. The old bastard is my mother’s brother,” he says disgustedly. 

“Lovely,” d’Artagnan murmurs, cringing at the thought of being related to such a cruel man.

With everything else seen to and his bandages in place, Miguel helps d’Artagnan with his shirt, and today, his doublet as well. “You should try to walk around a bit, but be careful with that shoulder, it’s still too swollen to be jarred,” he warns. “Fortunately your eye is looking better,” he notes and d’Artagnan agrees, he can actually open it now. 

“I’ve brought you some food, bread, cheese and another apple, you must eat it,” he says sternly, handing over the bundle of food. “The General is away today, you might yet get a reprieve from his wrath until tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan nods, grateful for small mercies. “Are you sure that Aramis is alright? Is he being mistreated? Please, my friend, be honest.”

Miguel’s expression is unreadable and d’Artagnan can’t quite make out what he may be trying to hide. “I swear on my honour that he is not being mistreated in any way,” Miguel replies and d’Artagnan sees sincerity in his gaze and he pushes his misgivings aside.

“You know, in another life or even another time from now, you and I would have been great friends, I think,” d’Artagnan says honestly. 

Miguel smiles and once again he reminds him of his beloved brother Aramis. “This war can’t last forever, can it? Maybe we’ll get that chance. And I must meet your Constance one day, you have me so intrigued I swear I’d brave a hundred French soldiers for a glimpse of this paragon of beauty and bravery!”

D’Artagnan laughs until the rumble of his chest becomes painful from the aches and the bruises that litter his torso. “I’ll make sure to tell her that…if I ever get to see her again,” he adds, biting down on his bottom lip, the thought that he may never lay eyes on her again too horrible to even imagine.

“I swear to you, on my honour and on the graves of my family, that I will do everything possible to help you survive your captivity,” Miguel tells him meaningfully. “Now I must go, before my uncle returns, if I can distract him this evening and keep him away from you, I will; maybe a bit of that sleeping powder I’ve put in your wine…” he says deviously and he gathers everything he’d brought with him into the sack. “Eat and get some exercise, then drink the spiked wine and rest.”

D’Artagnan nods, grateful. “I don’t know how to thank you…” he begins.

Miguel opens the door. “Thank me by doing your best to make it through this,” he says firmly, and then the heavy door closes and he’s gone.

D’Artagnan lets out a long breath. He always does his best, it’s in his nature, instilled in him from a small boy by loving parents, but he simply doesn’t know if it will be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Life on the northern front is nothing like Athos had expected.

Daybreak, muster, what passes for breakfast, feeding the horses, sword training, weapons checks, something that looks like stew for lunch, more sword training, grooming the horses, checking the tack, a lumpy, unidentifiable bowl of dinner, changing of the watch, sleep for those who can manage it and then the sun comes up all too quickly and it begins again.

This is a typical day on the frontlines, in the snow-covered, barren fields and forests of northern France, where a war is supposedly being fought. It’s more like ballroom dancing, Athos thinks, moving around each other gracefully, coming into brief contact with another participant, a light touch, maybe a stumble, some flirtation to be sure, a few steps forward and the always one back.

Athos is surely not anxious to see his regiment on the battlefield, where he knows that half will be slaughtered, but this game of cat and mouse that is keeping them here, cold, sick, undernourished and under-equipped will exhaust his men at some point, like the dancers of the cotillion who are quite breathless by the time the music ends, droplets of sweat on their flustered faces, hearts beating quickly as they wait in anticipation to see what the orchestra will choose to play next.

It’s been some time since his injury but his movements are still stiff and there’s an ache in his chest that he can no longer be sure is purely physical; watching boys and men die from insignificant wounds that quickly become infected and from common battlefield illnesses like dysentery is wearing Athos down much quicker than he had expected. He’d been a Musketeer for nearly eight years before leaving Paris for the front and he’s certainly not old enough to call himself battle-weary but this waiting and dancing around each other, raiding each other’s camps, killing and kidnapping patrols it not moving them any closer to victory and certainly not towards peace.

“Permission to enter sir!” Athos hears from the other side of the flimsy walls of his canvas tent and he rises stiffly from his chair. 

“Permission granted,” he replies, his tone sharp and steady, because that is what he must be if he has any chance of keeping these men alive.

Lacroix enters his tent and salutes, standing at attention until Athos will inform him otherwise. This young man has become a fine soldier, worthy of his commission and his status as coordinator of patrols, his horsemanship second only to that of young Henri, who is the son of a horse breeder, so his superiority in the saddle is to be expected. Lacroix however, no matter how good a soldier he might be, has one small problem, one that makes Athos truly ache for him, since his unrequited affection will never be reciprocated. But it can also be a liability so the Captain has had to employ creative manipulation to keep Lacroix as far away from the object of his devotion as possible, in order to ensure that lives are not lost by any impulsive or heroic gestures.

“At ease, lad. What’s the news from our patrols, more Spanish playing hide-and-seek outside our perimeter or have they proven too delicate to venture out from their tents on this brutally cold morning?” Athos inquires.

Lacroix struggles not to smile. “I’m happy to report that there haven’t been any sightings for the past twenty four hours. We shall see what today will bring, sir!” he replies formally.

Athos nods and puts one hand on his desk, leaning some of his weight on the scarred wooden surface, a gift from their wayward youngest, his entire body suddenly feeling heavy and exhausted. “And any news from Porthos? I’m expecting at least one of the scouts to be sent to report any progress to us, have any of them returned to camp?”

Lacroix’s smile fades instantly and Athos knows he’s hit his weak spot; if the young man doesn’t learn to hide his feelings better, Athos will have no choice but to speak to him and that is not a conversation that he is looking forward to. “No sir, none of the scouts have returned and there is still no news regarding the whereabouts of Aramis and d’Artagnan,” he answers stiffly but his voice breaks ever so slightly as he says the name of the regiment’s youngest member.

Lacroix shifts nervously from one foot to the other and clears his throat. “Permission to speak freely sir?”

Athos stiffens. “Of course, Musketeers are always encouraged to be honest and forthcoming; you may speak your mind without any fear of censure, Lacroix.”

Lacroix nods. “Sir, it’s about the scouts…” he begins tentatively. 

“What about them? I know they’re not exactly well-liked, but has something come to your attention, lad? If so, you must tell me, hundreds of lives could be at risk.”

“Yes of course, I am aware of that, but I’ve been raised to be a gentleman and gossiping and fear-mongering is something I am loath to participate in. But with our brothers missing, and two more possibly in danger, I thought it prudent to speak my mind now that I have something in particular to share,” the young man explains carefully.

“Oh for the love of God, lad, just spit it out!” Athos tells him angrily. “Do you think that the scouts are in any way disloyal to the French army?”

Lacroix nods slowly. “Yes sir that is what I think. And not just me, many other men in our regiment have questioned their loyalty,” he says finally, continuing to fidget anxiously.

“Does anyone have proof of this?” Athos demands, fear flooding his veins.

“No,” the younger man admits, “nothing solid or tangible. However, Pierre overheard them discussing the risks they’re taking, their fear for the safety of their families…” he explains apprehensively. “But one of them actually said, apparently jokingly, that it would be more worth the danger if they were being paid double, from both sides,” the young man tells him cautiously.

“Which man was this? Could Pierre discern who’d been speaking? And how did the others react to this comment!” Athos asks, questions flooding his brain. Could there be a traitor in their midst? The thought leaves him breathless.

Lacroix shakes his head. “He couldn’t be sure who made that statement, but he did say that Nicolas reacted quite angrily, he was quite sure of that, which leaves the other three as our possible culprits.”

Athos lets out a long frustrated breath. “I want eight men sent after Porthos and Henri immediately, one of them should be Pierre, so that he can report to Porthos directly without the need to share this information with anyone else at this time. Tell the men to equip themselves thoroughly as they will remain with Porthos under his command on his mission to find our missing brothers, understood?”

“Permission to assign myself to this patrol, sir.”

Athos feels his heart clench at the look on the young man’s face. “Permission denied, lad, I need you here, by my side, you are one of the few people I can truly count on,” he says honestly, but that’s not his only reason for keeping him behind.

Lacroix baulks. “But sir, I’m the fastest rider in the regiment, aside from Henri, I can be useful and …”

“One more reason I need you here, in case I need to send you to the General. Now go, speak to Pierre, tell him I expect his complete discretion on this matter and make sure to reiterate the need for complete secrecy. No one aside from Porthos should know of this. Do you know if he’s already shared this information with anyone else?”

“No, only me, sir, since he knows I have your ear,” Lacroix replies, his manner having turned sullen, but Athos disregards it. 

“Excellent. You have your orders, soldier, I am confident that you will choose the best men for the task. You’re a good lad, Lacroix, and I’m grateful for your dedication and your abilities, you have the qualities to make a fine officer one day soon, I expect you won’t do anything to spoil your chances, understood?”

There’s a fleeting moment where Athos sees Lacroix’s eyes widen a fraction, and Athos almost regrets what he’s said, but this is the military and it’s his duty to keep his men alive, their feelings must come second. Lacroix swiftly recovers, as a nobleman’s son he is very good at keeping his composure, a trait that Athos himself has had instilled in him by his own noble family, possibly the _only_ trait from his old life that Athos thinks is of any use to him.

“I understand fully, sir,” Lacroix responds formally, and the double entendre of his reply does not go unnoticed by the wily captain.

“Good, I am happy to hear that. Now go, and hurry, I want the patrol outfitted and riding out within the hour. Have some of the others assist them with their gear and their horses, every minute that passes is a minute that Porthos and Henri could possibly be in danger,” Athos tells him firmly.

“And Aramis and d’Artagnan,” the young man adds softly and he salutes Athos and hurries out of the tent.

Yes, there’s no mistaking the fact that the poor lad is smitten with d’Artagnan. It troubles Athos solely for the young man’s well being and safety, his proclivities are none of his business, nor does it shock or offend him in any way, but he’s confident that he’s doing the right thing by keeping the two lads as far away from each other as possible.

Athos sighs and sinks back into his chair, Aramis and d’Artagnan’s fate once more at the forefront of his thoughts. He’s done his absolute best to keep his worry at bay, he holds the safety of dozens of men in his hands, any error in judgment or any special deference to his missing brothers in arms could cost lives and Athos considers himself a fair and honourable man, it simply would not be acceptable to be more concerned for the lives of the three men who have become so dear to him, than the lives of all the men in the regiment as a whole.

Head over heart, a motto he’s done his best to instil in his men. Why then is he having such a hard time instilling it in himself?

 

**************************************

 

There are moments when a man wonders how another, made up of the same flesh and blood components as every other human being in existence, can be so outrageously ruthless and cruel, so fundamentally different from the majority of the people that God has created, especially when they are taught that God created man in his own image. 

These thoughts are running through d’Artagnan’s head as he hangs from a wooden beam, wearing only his breeches and his boots, his wrists bound together and tied to a sturdy rope wrapped around the rotting wood. His feet barely touch the ground so most of his weight is hanging by his shredding wrists and his injured shoulder is once again out of its socket.

He wants to scream, and to his shame, weep, but he does neither, nor does he pray again, surely God has forsaken him, he thinks morbidly, though it pains him greatly to think so. Instead, he focuses on the bastard General, imagining all the ways that he can kill him, slowly, painfully and _creatively_ , and through these thoughts he accepts that he is no better than the loathsome, heartless man himself, but d’Artagnan no longer cares.

Hauled barely conscious from his filthy pallet of straw he’d been stripped from the waist up and half-dragged, half carried from his cell to a large open storeroom just a few feet away. Miguel’s pain draught had been particularly potent and it had still held d’Artagnan firmly in its grip in the early morning when he’d been shocked to awareness by loud, angry voices and rough hands but he’d been too groggy to resist, his body uncooperative and his brain processing everything as if he were underwater, slow and murky.

D’Artagnan has no idea how long he’s been hanging there, he’s lost all perception of time and space, the pain sometimes stealing his senses completely, other times it’s the catalyst that forces him back into awareness. At some point he thinks he might have wet himself, he doesn’t know and he honestly doesn’t care, his dignity barely concerns him, nothing does aside from getting his revenge on the maggot who’d strung him up like a slaughtered animal, without the slightest inkling of remorse or shred of humanity.

He hears a door open, heavy and creaking, like the one on his cell and some soldiers appear, holding someone between them, and to his shock he sees it’s Aramis. Terrified for his brother’s safety and horrified that he might end up dangling beside him d’Artagnan futilely tires to kick one of the soldiers, all manner of foul curses tumbling hoarsely from his dry and cracked lips, and he’s rewarded by a first to his face. 

The blow effectively halts his angry diatribe and then Aramis cries out his name.

It come out like a wail, a horrible, wounded sound and he watches dazed, as his brother sinks to his knees, two soldiers kneeling beside him, keeping him from falling forward. Aramis is in shirtsleeves and breeches, no boots on his stockinged feet and even in the dim light of this cellar, d’Artagnan sees glazed eyes, pale skin streaked with tears and two distinctive red blotches on his cheeks, and he knows at once that Aramis must fevered.

“This, my dearest Senor Aramis, is what happens when you are uncooperative,” the General tells Aramis, who is still being held up by the two silent soldiers, his body trembling, probably from the cold and from the fever. 

“Have mercy on him, Senor, I beg of you,” Aramis slurs, his words slipping and sliding into each other, his expression horrified, and d’Artagnan now sees what had provoked Aramis’ outburst; the whip in the hateful man’s right hand.

“You are in control of his fate, my dear young man, so if you would like mercy shown, do something to stop this,” he says coldly. 

It finally dawns on d’Artagnan exactly what is happening, what Miguel had been hiding from him; Aramis is being asked to provide information to keep d’Artagnan from being mistreated. 

The weight of that knowledge is like a blow to his stomach. Aramis is obviously physically unwell but he doesn’t appear mistreated. But mentally, he has probably been tortured far worse than anything that d’Artagnan has suffered. Aramis is the kindest and most caring man he knows, d’Artagnan feels utterly devastated that such a good person is facing such an unspeakable choice; the choice between betraying his regiment and his country and betraying d’Artagnan. The General, he recalls, had made some offhand comment about ‘Aramis failing him’ the night he’d flogged him, but it had barely registered; now he understands what he’d meant.

“Aramis, look at me,” d’Artagnan says, the words like a harsh croak. “Don’t despair, brother, one for all, Aramis, _one for all_ ,” he repeats firmly, hoping that Aramis understands that d’Artagnan knew exactly what that motto meant before he’d even had the pauldron on his shoulder. One for all...his life for all the others...it’s what would be expected of any of them under the same circumstances. 

Aramis meets his gaze, eyes red and over bright and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and abruptly, his eyes roll back and he collapses limply, grabbed at the very last moment by the two men beside him.

“He’s a man of God!” d’Artagnan cries hoarsely. “You’re surely securing your place in hell with your treatment of him!”

The General doesn’t reply but he instructs his men to return Aramis to his bed and have the physician tend to him immediately. This is all said in Spanish, but d’Artagnan knows enough to understand what is being said and he feels nearly lightheaded with relief.

Once Aramis has been taken away, the General turns to d’Artagnan, whip in hand.

“You truly are an insolent wretch, but a resilient one, still defiant and brazen. Let us see what five more lashes to that already bloodied back of yours does to your impudence.”

Nothing could have prepared d’Artagnan for the pain, not even his previous experience with the lash, for this time the sleek leather slashes across the healing lacerations on his back, crisscrossing the already-torn skin, he can’t help it, he cries out, one, breathless agonised cry punched from his throat and then not a sound.

Dignity in tatters, he is cut down, dragged back to his cell and thrown onto the cold stone floor. His clothes are a few feet away but d’Artagnan is too weak to crawl the short distance, so he remains there, chest flat against the frozen ground, breath coming is short gasps, the pain in his back and his abused arms unequal to anything he’s ever experienced before.

The door does not open that day or that night. There is no Miguel, no clean water and bandages and no draught for the pain. A some point d’Artagnan had dragged himself those few feet to where his clothes had been discarded beside the pile of straw and he somehow managed to lay on top of his shirt and doublet but he lacks the strength to pull his cloak over his shivering body. 

Aramis’ fate is torturing his muddled brain. He'd appeared fevered and if his brother’s wound is infected and not treated properly he will surely die in this God-forsaken hellhole. And if the General continues to torture him mentally, dangling d’Artagnan as the metaphoric carrot, bloody and beaten, Aramis will surely go mad from horror and guilt. They need to get out of there, neither of them will survive their respective treatment for much longer and their only hope, aside from Athos and Porthos miraculously finding them in time, is possibly Miguel. But with his shoulder once more out of place, his back shredded and on fire, his wrists a bloody mess, d’Artagnan knows that there’s nothing that Miguel could do for them at the moment anyway, not with d’Artagnan himself barely able to crawl, and Aramis possibly delirious with fever. 

The hours pass slowly and torturously, with d’Artagnan fading in and out of consciousness, his arms numb, his shoulder throbbing and his back an inferno. He’d give anything to be in the same cell with Aramis, he thinks despondently, even if the older man could do nothing to treat his wounds, just his presence would have been enough to soothe his agony, if only just a little. Aramis, with his faith and his kind soul, makes a man feel like they can survive even the worst pain, even if they are beyond all worldly help.

To his shame, d’Artagnan feels one tear fall, then another, more from the heartache and the loneliness than the pain. If he is to die in this place, he would prefer not to be on his own, to be able to feel the comfort of Aramis’ soothing touch and listen to his familiar voice whisper words of solace would make his passing all the more bearable. If his wounds become infected and the torture takes his battered body to the point of no return, he will implore Miguel to bring Aramis to him, the Spaniard has proved to be a good and honourable man, and d’Artagnan will beg him to bring Aramis for the last rites; not that he cares about that anymore, he no longer believes that he is in God’s good graces, he simply would like to die in the comfort of his brother’s strong arms.

 

**************************************

 

Porthos du Vallon is the kind of man who doesn’t pass up the chance to be a bit smug when the occasion calls for it. He’s not often wrong, because he’s learned the hard way not to be impulsive, but when he is, he admits it with grace…unless the Red Guard are involved, they have no honour, so why bother? 

When he’s right though, he can be the most arrogant and smug bastard – his words, no one else would dare impugn his heritage - you’d ever chance to meet. Whether it’s his trademark grin and hearty laugh or his plain spoken ‘I told you so’ Porthos usually takes the opportunity to revel in his righteousness.

Today, however, is not one of those occasions. There’s no smug retort or witty banter, just his smouldering anger that he’d been right when they’d found the old mill empty, with absolutely no sign that anyone had been in or around it in months.

Denis had managed to persuade the scouts that the old mill must be checked first; it was closest to their temporary camp and he’d made a big fuss over the weather turning on them and the other men, afraid to be caught in a freak blizzard had also insisted they try the mill first and use it as a shelter if they’d find it empty.  
Porthos’ feelings of uneasiness have morphed into full-blown mistrust. The four men had been instructed by Athos to follow Porthos’ lead and not the other way around and they’d blatantly disregarded Athos’ directive. No snow came, not even one drop of rain and they are camped within the small courtyard of the mill, tired, cold and no closer to finding their missing brothers.

Henri has gone from wary to frightened, something that Porthos had not expected from the usually dependable and steady young man. Most of that fear though, Porthos, knows is for Aramis and d’Artagnan, who’s fate could very well be resting solely in the hands of these masked men who they’ve put their trust in. Porthos is considering sending Henri back to camp with a message for Athos, expressing his concerns. One of them was supposed to report in either way within the next twenty four hours, Porthos will weigh his options and make a decision first thing in the morning. If things go sour, he knows he can handle himself, with or without the young man at his side, and he’s leaning towards sending Henri to bring more men from their camp in order to widen the search. 

At the moment, the young Musketeer is sleeping and Porthos, bundled up in his cloak, is sitting on his bedroll, his mind going over all the details of the past two days, trying to recall anything that might positively confirm his suspicions. It is entirely possible that Porthos is overreacting; these men know this area like they know their own faces, so maybe Denis truly did think the mill was the most likely place to hide, but on the other hand, Porthos’ gut feelings and instincts are rarely wrong. If it’s proven that one or more of the scouts are working against them, Porthos will deal with them personally and if any further treachery on their part will have caused a delay in finding Aramis and d’Artagnan, Porthos will show the guilty party or parties no mercy.

Unfortunately this isn’t Porthos’ only concern. From the very first minute Porthos' biggest fear was Aramis and d’Artagnan being recognised and that their role in the duel that had killed the Spanish captain this past November would worsen their treatment as prisoners of war. Aramis had been the catalyst, d’Aragnan’s the hand that had ended the bastard’s life, he hadn’t said a word of this to Athos but their captain was no fool, Athos is the most intelligent and educated man amoung them, very little, if anything, gets past him, and Porthos is sure that this is just one more burden on the very heavy load that their brother carries.

There are moments, like this, that Porthos wonders why he remains a soldier. The closest he’d come to renouncing this life had been when he’d met the lovely and kind Alice, a woman he knows could have made him very happy. She’d seen past his mixed race and lack of status and had seen Porthos for who he is and what he’s achieved, but although she’d been truly taken with him as a man and as a possible companion, the fact that he was a soldier had been the one thing she couldn’t bear. The violence had shocked her, the fact that she might lose him in battle unthinkable and it had ended before it had really begun. In those moments, when he’d held her in his arms, dozing peacefully on his shoulder in her warm and comfortable bed, Porthos had imagined that he could get used to this; domestication, monogamy, quiet contentment. But not as a kept man, of course, so he’d never be able to give up his commission, earning his own way was imperative and sadly that was the one thing that Alice would not compromise on. 

Later, when they’d ridden off to war, he’d realised that even if he had decided to give up his commission, he would never have been able to stay behind, not while Athos and d’Artagnan were being sent to the front, the idea of the two of them going to war without him would have been inconceivable. It was enough that they’d been temporarily abandoned by Aramis; Porthos could not have watched his brothers ride off alone to face the enemy, for so many reasons, more reasons than he could even list, but the biggest being that he was a soldier at heart and he would be till the day he died.

Heart heavy, Porthos waits patiently for the sun to rise, and he hopes that this new day will be the one when they find their missing brothers, alive and well.

 

In the next part; we find out all is not as it seems with Aramis, Miguel admits to making a grave error in judgement, the metaphoric 'cavalry' is on their way to assist Porthos and Henri and Athos is afraid for the entire regiment and the army in general if there truly are spies working against them.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone is shaking him gently.

“Señor you must wake up,” a voice hisses in his ear. Spanish, somewhat familiar, but he can’t place it.

“Señor if you don’t get up now your friend will die!”

That gets Aramis’ attention. “What…” he croaks and clears his throat, “What’s happening?” he asks, blinking. His eyes feel swollen and his head won’t clear.

“We have very little time to tend to your friend before the others return, now please Señor Aramis, get up!”

It’s the Spaniard who’d given him d’Artagnan’s wedding band, the same one from the night of the duel, and he allows the other man to pull him up to sit. The cell is dark aside from a lamp burning in the corner and the physician is sleeping on his cot near Aramis’ bed. Alarmed, Aramis’ gaze goes to the old man.

“He won’t wake, I drugged him,” the Spanish officer informs him smugly. “The others have gone to Arras, they rode out late into the night and will be returning early in the morning. I am Miguel, nephew to General Navarro, but I have little love for the man and his cruel ways. Now, we must to tend to your friend Señor, he’s been flogged and he has other injuries as well, I need your help.”

Aramis nods, anxious now for his brother, and he looks for his boots, his head cloudy. “Why do I feel like I’ve been drugged?” Aramis wonders, mostly to himself.

“Because you were. Yesterday, the General said he was going to give you one last chance to share information so I drugged your food, hoping he would leave you alone, and in turn, leave d’Artagnan alone,” Miguel says fretfully. “Raoul tried to convince him you were truly ill, the man was beside himself; despite the fact that you’re wound is healing you were mostly unconscious, warm and flushed and he had no idea what was happening.”

“And?” Aramis demands.

Miguel looks distraught. “The General was furious, he thought you were faking so he took it out on d’Artagnan anyway,” he confesses, his voice hoarse. “I couldn’t help him after, the old bastard forbade me, and he watched me all evening like a hawk. When they left though I made Raoul a drugged tea, when I was sure he was in a deep sleep I woke you.”

Aramis struggles with the urge to break the Spaniard’s neck. “So d’Artagnan was flogged because your plan backfired? Holy mother of God, why would did you do such a thing?” Aramis asks, horrified. He remembers moments, glimpses of d’Artagnan suspended from a rope, the boy calling out to him, but he thought it had been a nightmare, just a horrible fever dream.

“Señor Aramis, if you’d been lucid you would have refused to cooperate, of that I’m sure,” Miguel tells him flatly. “At least now, it’s not on your conscience that d’Artagnan was flogged; you did not betray him, I did,” he adds obviously sickened over what had happened. “Enough, now we need to help him, it’s very bad, Señor!”

That’s all Aramis needs to hear and he allows the Spaniard to lead him out of the cell in his stockinged feet and into the one beside his. Once inside Aramis needs a moment to compose himself when he sees where their youngest brother has spent the last few days; it’s freezing, there is no bed or mattress, no food or water that he can see and no light, aside from the lamp that Miguel is holding. The worst thing of course, is the state of d’Artagnan himself, lying on the stone floor on top of his shirt and doublet, his cloak beside him, his shredded back nearly black from the dried blood. 

“Hurry!” Miguel hisses and Aramis shakes off his shock and springs into action. Falling to his knees beside the boy he searches for a pulse with trembling hands and sends up a prayer of thanks to the saints for keeping him alive. Miguel darts outside and brings a bucket of water and bundle with supplies. Aramis doesn’t want to wake him, it will be so much worse, he acknowledges, so he and Miguel work quietly and as gently as possible, but d’Artagnan’s wounds are horrific. The older slashes are seeping yellowish liquid, the newer ones still leaking blood.

“What kind of whip has done this? These wounds are very deep and they aren’t from the cat…” Aramis asks, sickened.

“A horse whip, it breaks the skin because the end of it is almost as sharp as a blade, made especially for my uncle.”

“I thought it was a dream, a nightmare actually, I don’t even remember anything that happened yesterday,” Aramis admits in a hushed tone as he tries to get as much blood as he can cleaned away. “I remember being feverish the day before, having a bath,” he adds with an embarrassed grimace, “and then the rest of the day I think I slept. Later on Raoul told me my wound was no longer infected and in truth I was feeling much better.”

“Yes, he also reported this to the General, who then decided that in the morning you would be interrogated. I didn’t know what else to do! I was certain you would not betray your country and my uncle is a very vindictive man, I did what I thought was best. If you were incapacitated I was sure he’d leave the boy alone,” Miguel explains miserably. 

Aramis is still very angry, but he believes him. “You’ve kept him alive so far, and for that I’m truly grateful. He’s not just my comrade in arms, he’s family,” Aramis tells him softly.

“His wrists are torn and bloodied as well, and I think his shoulder is out of place again.”

“Again? Dear God, I’m going to kill him! I know he’s your uncle but this is outrageous,” Aramis hisses, irate, unable to believe how d’Artagnan has been treated. “You said you weren’t supposed to take care of him, what will happen when the general sees that you have? Will he take it out on the lad?” Aramis asks, the frightening thought suddenly occurring to him.

“No, I can handle the old bastard, I’ve been doing so for most of my life” Miguel answers with a grimace. “He’s always been a bully, I spent most of my childhood contriving ways to keep my aunt safe from his wrath without him realising what I was doing.”

Aramis can’t help it, his mouth twists into a half smile. “Sounds like you were a crafty lad, and still are, how do you manage to fool him?”

“Flattery, misdirection, and I always let him think that my ideas are his, I will do the same today, don’t worry.”

When his back has been cleaned, rubbed with a healing salve and bandaged they begin on his wrists and d’Artagnan hasn’t twitched, hasn’t moved a muscle or made a sound. Aramis feels helpless and useless and guilty, but he tries not to dwell on any of that. They need to finish tending to him and get him dressed, and possibly fed, if Miguel can manage to get them any food.

“I have some wine in a flask and some bread,” the Spaniard tells Aramis when he inquires. “Maybe if we mix it together we can feed it to him. I’ll return immediately,” he says and leaves Aramis alone with d’Artagnan.

Aramis carefully cleans one side of his dirt streaked face and feels his heart break. Sickly, blue-green discoloration surrounds one eye and his jaw is red and inflamed with fresh bruises blooming from ear to chin. “I’m so sorry, lad,” Aramis whispers mournfully, one tear escaping, then another, “I’m so very sorry.”

Miguel returns with a cup and a spoon and he pours the wine into the cup and then adds some bread, mixing it up. He puts it aside and they gently lift d’Artagnan until he is sitting, and wrap clean bandages around his torso and then put his shirt over his head. .

“His shoulder…”Aramis breathes, sickened. “We can’t fix it…not today…it’s too swollen.” They carefully put his right arm into his sleeve and leave the other one empty for now. Aramis quickly wipes the rest of his face and neck with a clean wet rag and then tosses it aside “Let’s see if we can get him to take a few bites.”

Miguel nods and moves to kneel behind him, holding him up as carefully as he can, his hands avoiding his ruined back and mindful of his injured shoulder.

“D’Artagnan, open your eyes, brother,” Aramis urges kindly but firmly. When he receives no response he begins patting his cheeks. “Come on now, lad, just for a moment, and then you can rest again.” Still nothing. Aramis sighs and he regretfully employs an old trick that he’s found effective when trying to wake Athos from a drunken stupor; he pinches his ear lobe, once, twice, but nothing, the third time he flinches, the fourth, his eyes open.  
Slowly, d’Artagnan’s lids flutter, and immediately he gasps and twists, and Aramis knows he’s been assaulted by pure agony. 

”Settle, lad, you’ll hurt yourself,” Aramis scolds. “Deep breaths, in and out, come on, I’ve got you.”

“Aramis? Is that really you?” he asks, in a shaky voice so filled with wonder and relief Aramis feels tears well up again. 

“It’s me, brother. Listen, we don’t have much time. I need you to eat something, can you try…please?” Aramis implores softly.

D’Artagnan nods once and doesn’t even bother to protest, not a very good sign Aramis thinks. “Good boy,” he tells him and he spoons the wine and bread mixture into his mouth. D’Artagnan’s eyes slide shut but he swallows and allows Aramis to give him the whole cup. 

The symbolism of what he is feeding his injured brother is not lost on Aramis, and for a moment his breath catches, wishing for a fleeting moment that he had been ordained, to bless the bread and wine combination, in case he truly is feeding his brother a bastardised version of the communion of the last rites.

“He will rest easier now,” Miguel assures him as they ease d’Artagnan to lay back down on his stomach and within moments he’s out cold.

“You drugged the wine? By God, man, what is it with you and potions?” Aramis questions, genuinely frustrated. 

“My wife, she tended to everyone in our household personally, from family to servant, everyone received the finest care from my Esme, she taught me how to make various tonics, for everything from diarrhoea to a headache. I’m trying to help you and the boy, believe me, I certainly never intended for this to happen,” he says dejectedly.

“Miguel I believe you, honestly, I just wish I’d known what you were planning, I assure you I would have gone along with it. What is this place? And why are you here instead of in your camp or in Arras,” Aramis questions. He doesn’t actually expect a truthful response but he tries, regardless.

Miguel lets out a long sigh. “We’re here because you were betrayed. The General knew where to find you and he was told you were carrying important orders. We set up an outpost here specifically to detain and interrogate you. Arras is under constant surveillance by your army, any attempt to get you into the city could have brought on a bloody skirmish for sure.”

Aramis feels like all the breath had been punched from his lungs. “The General said, but I didn’t believe him, do you know who betrayed us?” 

Miguel shakes his head. “I don’t know, Señor, truly I don’t. Only the General and Alejandro know, they meet their spy alone,” he says disgusted. “I joined the military after the death of my family, I was feeling lost and hopeless and my uncle lured me in with stories of great victories fought with honour and dignity, for the protection of my country and my people. And then I found myself part of an institution seeped in corruption, where rank is bought and sold and battles are fought not with skill or honour but based on betrayal and treachery. But I’ve remained and I’ve made it my duty to help men on both sides that have been wronged by this senseless war, men mistreated by their own peers and prisoners like yourselves who are not held according to the treaties set down. This boy,” he says indicating d’Artagnan “has been wronged twice, once by my former captain and his poisoned sword and now by my uncle who treats him like a dog…no, that’s not true, he treated his dogs back home somewhat better.”

Aramis listens to all of this astonished, and in awe of this man who is truly a better human being than Aramis himself has ever been. “I don’t suppose you could help us get out of here?” Aramis inquires hopefully even though he knows what the answer will be.

“If it was in my power I would have done it before the boy had been so badly mistreated. I’m sorry Señor, truly, but I cannot help you escape.”

“I understand,” he replies, stroking the lad’s hair and his face, loathe to break contact with his beloved friend. 

“This is my fault, he wasn’t supposed to come along, he’d been…ill,” Aramis explains, stumbling over that understatement, not wanting to go into all the details of his suffering with Miguel. “But I encouraged our Captain to let him accompany me now look what’s happened,” Aramis says ruefully. “We shouldn’t have been separated but the foolish boy is even more cunning than you are and he apparently convinced the General that I was someone…special.”

“Yes, he’s quite the storyteller,” Miguel states with a low chuckle. “He tells tales of his wife that surely cannot be true, can they?”

Aramis smiles, his hand still tangled in the boy’s hair. “Trust me, whatever he’s told you is true and then some. Did he tell you that Constance and I were falsely accused of treason and sentenced to death?” Miguel shakes his head, clearly stunned. 

“Constance went to the block with more courage than I probably would have managed to muster. Fortunately, this mad boy and our friends saved her in the nick of time. We were exonerated of course, but I’m sure that the pair of them will have nightmares about that day for a lifetime, I know I will.” 

“I’ve never met any woman like that, she sounds like an Amazon, is she tall and muscular as well?” he asks in awe.

Aramis laughs softly. “No, she’s actually quite lady-like, beautiful and well-proportioned, and my brother here fell in love with her the minute he saw her. Their story is not a perfect one though, there was plenty of heartache and much wine was consumed and tears shed before they finally became man and wife.”

“I know, he told me. And you my friend? Have you left some lovely woman pining for you back in Paris? They say you’re a monk, but somehow I doubt that,” Miguel says with a knowing smile.

Aramis lets out a long breath. He’s lain with too many women to count, but truly loved only three. Two have been taken from him forever and he knows the third can never be his. “No, it seems I’m destined to be alone, married only to my faith,” he replies honestly. After all that’s happened, Aramis is sure he’ll never be in love again, never find happiness within the arms of another woman. But he’s content to spend the rest of his days beside his brothers, protecting his country, and in turn, keeping his child safe.

Miguel nods knowingly and Aramis see a kindred spirit in him, the other man in no stranger to heartache himself.  
“You call him brother and he fought as if possessed by the devil when they took you,” Miguel muses, changing the subject, “and back at your camp that night, it seemed as if every man would have stepped forward to protect your regiment, I have to admit there’s not much of that among our men. How do your superiors manage to foster such loyalty?”

Aramis smiles ruefully, taking d’Artagnan’s cold hand and warming it between both of his; it’s pointless he knows, it will be freezing again as soon as he lets go, but mostly it’s an excuse to hold his hand, to feel the pulse at his wrist and assure himself that he’s still alive.

“It’s not like that everywhere, it’s mostly our Captain…and our Captain before him, both demanding loyalty and fidelity above all else and strict adherence to our motto…” he answers truthfully, keeping the oath to himself, “and the boy, he’s our youngest,” Aramis continues, swallowing the lump in his throat, “and somewhat…reckless, but very brave, he always manages to get himself into some kind of trouble…” he finishes, trailing off, not able to say anymore without losing his composure.

Miguel’s gaze falls on d’Artagnan's still form and he nods sympathetically. “Listen, it’s nearly daybreak, the others will be returning soon. You say his shoulder has to remain as it is?”

“Unfortunately yes…in a day or two, we’ll see…” Aramis adds, but then he’s hit with the morbid thought that d’Artagnan may not be alive by then and he sways.

“Here, Señor, let me help you stand,” Miguel says, righting him before he falls over. Aramis feels dizzy and weak, a reminder that he has not yet fully recovered from his own injury. He allows Miguel to help him stand and with one last, longing look at his sleeping brother Miguel leads him back to his own cell and he finds himself leaning much heavier than he’d like on the Spaniard. Miguel helps him sit on the end of the bed and he frowns. “Those stockings will tell a tale of midnight strolls,” Miguel tuts and bends over to roll them off Aramis’ feet. “Better to have cold feet than to give yourself away. I’ll bring you another pair and leave them on your bed, so no one suspects anything aside from you feeling overly warm.”

Aramis doesn’t care about dirty hose or cold feet or even his aching shoulder wound at that moment. Once he’s lying back in his bed, his hand snakes under his shirt to his crucifix, to where d’Artagnan’s wedding band now hangs as well. Miguel leaves quietly and Aramis barely notices the other man exit, his mind now focused on his prayers. He prays for d’Artagnan and for the safety of all of his brothers in arms, and for Porthos and Athos in particular, and he asks the saints to guide them to this place, wherever it is, so that they might save d’Artagnan before he slips away from them. Lastly, he prays for himself, and he asks God to give him the strength and fortitude to keep the boy alive while they wait for Athos and Porthos to come to their rescue.

 

******************************************

 

At dawn, Porthos watches Henri open his eyes blearily…and begin to cough.

The ague has hit his young comrade and Porthos is at once twisted in knots. If he puts him on a horse and sends him back to camp he may not make it all the way. If he sends one of the scouts there is the possibility that his coded correspondence may never make it to Athos’ hands. And if he goes himself and leaves Henri alone the boy could be in grave danger, not only from the illness but possibly from the scouts as well.

In the end Porthos makes a decision based on process of elimination. He is sure he doesn’t trust Denis and mostly sure he can trust Nicolas so he decides that those two must be kept close. Michel seems like an alright sort, hardly speaks, keeps his opinion to himself but Alphonse has been somewhat warmer to him and the lad, and although he is truly suspicious of all of them, Porthos gives his coded and sealed missive to Alphonse and urges him to get back to camp as soon as possible to report what they’ve found, or not found, Porthos thinks angrily, but to also bring some of Jacques’ herbal mixtures for the ailing lad.

What none of them know of course is that along with the teas and blankets Porthos has requested reinforcements and ammunition.

Porthos tends to Henri as best as he can, helping him outside to relieve himself and making sure he eats something, before bundling him up under the blankets and securing the tent flap to keep the cold air away from the young Musketeer. Porthos approaches the rest of the scouts warily to discuss their next move; losing an entire day waiting for reinforcements is out of the question, but how can he leave Henri alone and unprotected?

“Nicolas, can you and Michel stay here and look after the boy while Denis and I have another look around? We can’t waste another day waiting for the boy to feel better, our men could be dead by then.”

“Of course,” the other man says kindly and there is something in his eyes that gives Porthos reason to believe that he will not hurt the lad. “My daughter had this illness recently, my wife said it passed quickly with rest and some old family remedies, as soon as Alphonse returns with the herbal teas I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Porthos thanks him and after a quick breakfast he and a mostly sullen Denis ride off in the direction of the ruined abbey.

“Can I ask you something?” Porthos queries, when they stop at a stream to water the horses. 

Denis looks at him oddly. “Of course,” he replies, clearly surprised.

“Why do you do this? The scouting I mean,” Porthos questions innocently. 

Denis nods slowly. “If you’re asking if it’s for France, the answer is no. I’m doing it for the money. I have a very large family to support, my parents, my wife and children, two orphaned nephews and the hired help on our farm. I’m a patriot, Monsieur Porthos, but I won’t lie and say I’m doing this for the King or for France.”

It’s a somewhat shocking revelation but Porthos respects his honesty. “And your friends? They also have families and responsibilities?”

“Aside from Alphonse the rest of us are farmers with families and debts and many mouths to feed.”

Porthos nods slowly, a feeling of unease settling in his belly. “And Alphonse? Trying to save money to marry his sweetheart or maybe open a tavern in his village?”

Denis frowns. “None of us has worked with Alphonse before. He is from this region and an excellent tracker and horseman but he keeps his personal life to himself, I’d be lying if I said I knew anything more.”

“Do you think he’s trustworthy?” Porthos questions, finally getting to the point. 

“Are you trying to ask if any of us would betray you and your regiment, Monsieur?” Denis asks, clearly affronted. “I just told you I’m doing this for the money, we all are, but that doesn’t mean that we are traitors!”

“I have every right to ask,” Porthos replies firmly. “The two Musketeers who are missing? They are my only family, Monsieur, I lost my mother at five and the horrible wretch that spawned me had dumped me long before that. There is no one left alive that I call family aside from these men, the wife of the younger of the two and our Captain. Now, I would be out here searching for any one of the men in our regiment, they are all my brothers, but these two are very close to my heart so I will ask you again, in plain language, would you or anyone in your party betray us for gold?”

Denis shakes his head. “I can personally vouch for myself, Michel and Nicolas, who I have known many years. None us of would betray our own country...or our employers,” he adds pointedly, “for extra gold, despite what you may think.”

“I believe you,” Porthos says truthfully. “But what about Alphonse?”

“I don’t know him well enough to vouch for him,” Denis answers as they mount their horses. “But that doesn’t mean I think he’s disloyal.”

They ride in silence, in the direction of the ruined abbey, everything they’ve discussed running through Porthos’ head, and he tries to sort through all the information. These men have families, would they risk their wives and children for a few extra coins? Porthos doubts it, which leaves Alphonse as the only suspect, if there even is a traitor amongst them.

“Monsieur Porthos, we must go the rest of the way of foot for stealth, the horses will be heard if there is anyone there,” Denis warns and they carefully tie their horses, check their weapons and move forward. Luckily for them, there are trees and some underbrush, and despite the snow making the trek difficult they are able to get close enough for Porthos to use his spyglass.

“There are Spanish soldiers guarding the perimeter,” he informs Denis who takes the spy glass to see for himself.

“A raid requires more men than we have,” he tells Porthos grimly. “And the element of surprise is of the utmost importance.”

“I’ve requested reinforcements,” Porthos tells him as they retreat. “As soon as I realised that Henri was unwell I added that to my report to the Captain,” he lies smoothly and Denis thankfully doesn’t take that as an affront.

“Good, we’ll need at least a dozen men, how many did you request?”

“Eight or ten, plus the five of us, we’ll be fine,” Porthos says with conviction, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. They can’t be sure that his brothers are actually in the abbey but those inside may be able to tell them where there are being held, with a little persuasion of course. They get back to the horses and ride quickly back to camp where they find Nicolas tending to the ailing Henri. The boy now has a fever and Porthos, after seeing his comrades suffer for the past ten days or so, is afraid for his life.

“I hope your man gets back here quickly,” Porthos says, taking Nicolas’ place beside the young Musketeer. Henri’s eyes are closed, his face lax and his breathing is laboured and Porthos is properly terrified.

“There’s nothing we can do until reinforcements arrive,” Michel states quietly, poking his head in through the tent flap. “I’ll prepare something for everyone to eat, for you and the boy as well,” he adds and Porthos gives him a grateful smile. His gut tells him that these three can be trusted, but what of Alphonse? What if he doesn’t deliver the missive to Athos and just rides off and disappears? 

For the moment, his only concern is getting a bit of food and water into his sick brother and he’s grateful that Michel has offered to cook for them as well. As a Musketeer Porthos is used to being able to rely on the man beside him in battle and the man who shares his tent and breaks bread with him, so this has been a trying mission. But aside from Henri’s sudden and unexpected illness things are looking up. It seems as if they may have found their missing brothers and Porthos is now feels confident that he can trust these three men. 

Maybe, just maybe, this one time, luck will remain in their side?

 

**********************************************

 

Early evening brings news to the Musketeer’s camp by way of the scout name Alphonse.

He tells Athos of Henri’s sudden illness and requests supplies to treat him, as well as food and blankets. He gives Athos a quick report on the previous day’s findings, in other words nothing, but he tells Athos that they are hopeful that the abbey will hold some clues if not the missing men themselves.

“Is there no correspondence for me from Porthos?” the Captain inquires, surprised.

“No sir, as I said he rushed me off with instructions to bring back supplies for the sick Musketeer as soon as possible and there was no time to write a missive,” Alphonse explains apologetically and Athos knows at once that he’s lying. It’s protocol, Porthos would have sent him a coded message even if there was nothing to report, Athos knows this for a fact but apparently Alphonse doesn’t. At some point his lie will be exposed, does he plan to be gone by then?

“Have you by any chance passed any of our men on the road? I’d sent a patrol late yesterday afternoon with dispatches to our outpost again," Athos lies smoothly. "Considering that they’d camped for the night I would have thought you'd have crossed paths today at some point?”

“No sir, I’ve seen no one."

“Very well, I’ll have everything you need prepared at once. In the meanwhile rest and get something to eat, when you’re ready to leave come back here so I can give you my correspondence to Porthos, agreed?” Athos tells him pleasantly.

“Yes sir,” Alphonse replies and he leaves Athos’ tent.

Athos straps on his sword, grabs his cloak and follows, taking the lit torch from its holder outside of his tent intent on rounding up some of his most dependable men, Lacroix, Hubert, Laurent for the moment, since he’s already sent eight of his most trusted comrades after Porthos and Henri and of course Aramis and d’Artagnan are not at his side. Alphonse is clearly lying, but to what purpose? Is he the man that Pierre overheard? Is he the traitor Lacroix fears moves among them? Porthos would have sent correspondence for certain and the men he’d sent after Porthos and Henri yesterday were carrying a detailed map of the search areas, they should have met up with Porthos before Alphonse left camp or at the very least passed each other on the road.

He puts the torch in an empty holder outside the mess tent when he hears a faint rustling behind him. Instinct, days of uncertainty and seeds of mistrust have heightened Athos’ senses and it takes him a fraction of a second to swing around, sword in hand.

He’s not surprised to see a shocked Alphonse standing in front of him, pistol drawn and with a flick of his sword the pistol goes flying from the traitors hand, along with a few of his fingers.

The horrible howl that escapes the man’s throat brings the entire camp to Athos, Lacroix reaching him first and pushing Athos behind him immediately, pistols in hand.

“Stand down, lad, I’ve got this,” Athos says firmly and Lacroix reluctantly takes a few steps back to stand beside Athos instead of in front of him, pistols still pointed at the wounded scout.

“I will allow George to treat your wounds if you tell me what the bloody hell is going on. If not, I will tie you to a post and let you bleed to death, which you surely will...very soon.”

“Fix me up just to hang? No, I’d rather die!” Alphonse sneers.

Athos doesn’t want to do this but he has no choice. “Alright, no death sentence, my word is law, and there are dozens of witnesses. You don’t have much time, my friend.”

“Fine, fine, now please, help me!” he wails and George moves through the crowd quickly with a bundle of bandages and he does his best to staunch the flowing blood from Alphonse’s mangled hand.

“This needs to be cauterised at once, Captain!” George warns.

“What have you done to Porthos and Henri?” Athos demands.

“Nothing! I swear they’re fine, at the old mill, the boy was ill but not injured!” Alphonse sobs.

"And Aramis and d’Artagnan?”

“The abbey, the one Nicolas showed you on the map,” he replies, swaying.

“Where have you been all day today? I’m guessing Porthos sent you out very early this morning!”

“I was meeting with my contact, the one who wants you dead.”

“And who is this person who ordered my death?”

“General Navarro, he has Aramis and d’Artagnan,” the disgraced scout says miserably, tears and mucus running down his face and chin, “he sent me to kill you, something about that stupid duel,” he adds wretchedly. 

Athos feels his blood freeze in his veins. “Why did he take Aramis and d’Artagnan specifically, for the same reason?”

“No, I told him they were carrying orders, he found out later who they were, from some of his men and then decided punishing d’Artagnan wasn’t enough, he wanted you dead as well,” Alphonse answers feebly, obviously close to losing consciousness. 

Athos seethes. “Dear God, has he already killed Aramis and d’Artagnan? Answer me truthfully or I’ll draw and quarter you while you’re still alive!”

“No, no, Aramis is fine, he knows he was a monk and he won’t hurt him, some nonsense about the wrath of God , but d’Artagnan has been…mistreated, you’d better hurry,” he says, collapsing forward onto George. 

It takes Lacroix, Hubert and a few others a quarter of an hour to keep the rest of the men from entering the infirmary and ripping the traitor to pieces, but Athos has already left the melee and headed for his tent where he’s packing his saddlebags and prepping his weapons. A dishevelled Lacroix finds him as he is leaving his tent.

“Permission to accompany you sir!” 

Athos sighs heavily. His decision to ride out after Pierre and the others is impulsive and he knows that abandoning the regiment could a dangerous move but if the treachery goes any deeper than just Alphonse the regiment is in grave danger regardless.

“Tell Hubert he is in charge of the regiment , with Laurent as his first Lieutenant until we return. Alphonse is not to be harmed, we still need to question him! He’s to be shackled in the infirmary with two guards at all times. Any sign of the Spanish or any other threat they are to send riders to General Dubois, understood?”

“Yes sir, I’ll be ready to ride as soon as I give out the orders, shall I saddle the horses?”

“No I will, grab your kit and those medical supplies for Henri and meet me in ten!” Athos commands, still unsure if he’s doing the right thing. But he’s already sent ten men including Porthos and Henri into certain danger and without knowing what in blazes is actually going on, he can’t in good conscience send out even more men, possibly to their death. Besides, Athos would like to confront this General who has ordered his death face to face and if he’s truly mistreated his brothers who are prisoners of war and protected by a treaty, he would like to be the one to personally send the bastard to hell.

Lacroix meets him at the horses and with the aid of the full moon, Athos and the young Musketeer ride out of camp to find their wayward brothers…all of them…and he hopes to God they are not too late.


	6. Chapter 6

After an anxious day with no news of d’Artagnan, Aramis is hustled into his coat sometime in the late afternoon by the physician Raoul and Miguel, and along with two other men he is taken up the worn stone steps and into a small courtyard. There, the physician instructs him to sit on a stone bench, apparently in order to allow the fresh air and the waning sun improve his health and his disposition. Aramis wonders if he can overpower the two soldiers with his injured shoulder still unhealed, he’s fought more men under worse circumstances and prevailed and he doesn’t doubt his skills. But since d’Artagnan’s fate is tied to his if he fails he will be signing his brother’s death warrant for sure, so he sits there, sullen and frustrated, waiting for a chance to question Miguel about the boy’s condition

He takes a good long look at his surrounding and he realises where they are; the abandoned abbey half-way between the Musketeers camp and Arras. He knows that the monks had fled the fighting months earlier and the buildings had quickly fallen victim to thieves, the elements and all manner of rodents and other small animals. It seems as if the Spanish have cleaned up the compound considerably but have not made any improvements to the damaged buildings, which gives credence to Miguel’s story that this is just a temporary outpost. At the moment he may not be fit to actually do anything to facilitate their escape but knowledge is power and he knows the area around this place fairly well. When the time comes, this will be to his advantage.

“Your friend is a stubborn bastard,” Miguel says haughtily, finally approaching him, his voice loud enough for the rest of the men to hear. “But let’s see if he’s stubborn enough to fight the fever that’s gripped him. The sooner you talk, Musketeer, the better!”

Distraught but grateful to Miguel for the news, Aramis immediately turns to Raoul and he finds the old physician looking particularly tired and weary. “Señor, please, some mercy for the boy, he’s no more than a child, can’t you have a quick look at him, maybe give him something for the fever and the pain?” he asks imploringly. Even if he and Miguel get a chance to tend to him again Aramis is sure that the wily old physician has more knowledge and certainly more supplies than they do. A fever means infection, and under the filthy conditions in d’Artagnan’s cell his wounds can quickly fester, and a slow and very painful death will follow.

To Aramis’ shock, Raoul agrees. He instructs the entire party to retreat back to the cellar where the guards reluctantly open the door to d’Artagnan’s cell. 

“Bring the bath, with warm water, not hot. We must keep the prisoner alive or the general will have our heads!” Raoul tells them sternly and the two guards leave to bring the tub, grumbling as they go.

“You, bring a chair for our guest,” he commands Miguel, who hurries to do his bidding. When the Spaniard returns the doctor insists that Aramis not move from the chair while he and Miguel strip the unconscious and fevered d’Artagnan of his filthy clothes.

“Bring him a clean shirt, some drawers and stockings, Miguel, and burn his own, they are disgusting,” the physician instructs as they lay d’Artagnan on his cloak. The old man tries to remove the bandages from his back but they are stuck.

When Miguel returns, he hands Aramis the clean garments and he’s is grateful to see that there is a pair of soft brown breeches as well. 

“The bandages are stuck, but it’s probably better since they will protect his back from the metal of the tub. They’ll come off when they become saturated,” Raoul explains. 

Aramis is horrified by the state of his brother’s bare body; contusions and cuts from the beating he’d suffered the first night litter his body, blood and yellow pus are seeping through the bandages on his back and his wrists and his face is puffy along his jaw and a sickly yellow-green from the bruises. His left shoulder is still too swollen to put back in place and the sight of it makes Aramis want to scream in rage.

The worst thing of all though is that he has not stirred. Raoul has forbidden him from approaching the lad though and Aramis sits there, worried and tense, unable to do a thing to help.

The tub finally arrives and the soldiers leave once more to return carrying two buckets each, with hot water warmed on the fire and cold straight from the well. Miguel helps Raoul get the right temperature and then with the help of the reluctant soldiers, d’Artagnan is lowered into the tub.

“He’s like a brother to me, please, Señor Raoul, allow me to bathe him,” Aramis tries one more time, but Raoul won’t budge. Instead he hands a bar of soap to Miguel who has removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves and he gives d’Artagnan a quick but thorough bath. While still in the tepid water, the two men ease the bandages off his back and Raoul huffs when he sees the state of the boy’s back. 

“Miguel, we can’t clean these here. Get my blanket from Señor Aramis’ cell so that we may dry him with it and we’ll put him on my cot so I can try and clean some of the poison from the wounds.”

Everything is done very quickly and d’Artagnan is taken from the bath, wrapped in the blanket and carried by Miguel very carefully to Aramis’ cell. Aramis, clutching the clean clothes, follows closely, the two sullen soldiers right behind him. 

“Señor, my bed would be better suited…” Aramis begins but Raoul silences him. “No, the General would be furious, it’s enough I’m going to have to bribe these men to keep quiet,” he says, indicating the surly soldiers who are clearly expecting compensation for their silence. “Now sit there and do not interfere!”

It takes almost two hours for Raoul and Miguel to clean out each slash from the infection that has developed and Raoul fills them with a powder that he explains to Miguel is more effective than the salve he’d been using. The same is done for his shredded wrists, which are also infected and swollen. They manage to get a half cup of water with a strong tincture made from herbs for the fever and a few drops of laudanum down his throat and then they bandage him and dress him in clean clothes.

“God bless you, Señor Raoul,” Aramis says, relieved and grateful when they are done. “You’ve probably saved his life.”

“Maybe…for the moment,” Raoul answers regretfully. He takes two coins from his purse and hands them to the soldiers who know better than to talk; after all they too played a role in all if this. He instructs them to get rid of all traces of the bath from d’Artagnan’s cell and tells them to change the straw he’s been using as a bed and cover the clean pile with a blanket.

“The General returned earlier this morning from his journey to Arras and then left again,” Miguel whispers to Aramis while Raoul is busy cleaning up his supplies. “He said he’d return before dark, he took Alejandro along with the rest of his private guard, which means he’s meeting his spy.”

Aramis sighs, helpless to do anything about that particular problem, so he focuses on d’Artagnan, who is lying on the physician’s cot, face down, hair still damp from the bath, his head resting on a pillow.

“Can we leave him here, maybe until his fever goes down at least…” he asks Raoul hopefully.

The old man shakes his head sadly. “Half hour, at most, Miguel will make sure you don’t do anything to jeopardise your young friend’s precarious position…or overtax yourself, agreed?”

“Thank you,” Aramis replies sincerely and he sits in the chair beside d’Artagnan…until Raoul leaves at which point he sits on the cold stone floor so he can be directly beside the lad.

“I’ll be just out here,” Miguel says quietly, and he sits on a stool outside the cell to give them some privacy.

Aramis stretches out one trembling hand and rests it on the boy’s burning face. The fact that he has not woken is not a good sign. It could mean that the infection has already begun to attack his organs or it could simply mean that his battered and exhausted body simply needs to rest and heal. Aramis may have been appointed regiment medic but that certainly doesn’t mean he possesses all the knowledge of a proper physician. He also knows that these measures are temporary; in order to keeps the wounds from festering again and keep the fever down they’ll need go through the entire process again, something he sincerely doubts that Raoul will agree too. He’s already deeply in the older man’s debt with no way to repay him.

“Aramis?”

Surprised, Aramis turns his wandering gaze back to his brother’s face and to his relief, d’Artagnan has opened his eyes.

“Oh you’ve given me quite a fright, lad,” he says shakily, leaning in close so that the boy can see him clearly. 

“Everything hurts, brother,” he says slowly, almost petulantly, and Aramis smiles. “That’s good, it means you’re alive. The pain will pass, the physician has given you a draught.”

“Physician?” d’Artagnan questions, confused.

“Yes, he helped us. You need to drink some water,” Aramis says and he gets to his knees. He takes the cup from beside him on the floor and lifts d’Aragnan’s head with his left hand, his injured shoulder screaming, and he puts the cup to the boy’s mouth with his right. The angle is awkward and some of it ends up on the pillow but d’Artagnan manages to swallow enough.

“The dreaded question, lad, have you passed urine at all?” 

D’Artagnan scrunches up his face in disgust. “Does wetting myself count?” he asks bitterly.

Aramis feels his heart stutter as he imagines the circumstance that may have brought that on. “Yes, it does, don’t let it bother you, though, Porthos and I could tell you stories…” he says teasingly. “And you’ve had a bath, so nothing to worry about.”

“A bath?” he breathes, shocked.

“Your fever was high, it was the only way to cool you down, Raoul bribed the guards, Miguel helped, and now you’re all nice and clean and soon you’ll be rid of this fever,” Aramis tells him with a lot more confidence than he is actually feeling. 

“Señor, we must take him back,” Miguel informs them regretfully from the doorway. “You can sit with him in there for a bit, I promise, if the General finds him in here, there will be hell to pay,” the Spaniard adds fretfully. “We’ll move him with the cot, it will be easier.”

Aramis slowly gets to his feet. “How? I can’t help you lift him, my arm isn’t ready for that,” Aramis explains, frustrated by the state of himself. If the pair of them were in better physical condition overpowering the two guards would be child’s play for him and d’Artagnan and they’d have been long gone before the odious general returned. But that’s wishful thinking because neither of them is in a position to do much of anything.

“No! I’ll walk,” d’Artagnan protests from the cot and Aramis sighs loudly. “You won’t make it two feet, brother.”

“Yes I will, help me up,” he insists and Aramis and Miguel share a look before reaching to help the lad off the cot.  
It takes them ten excruciating minutes to get him from one cell to the other, and by the time they have him lying on the fresh pile of hay, covered now with a blanket, the three of them are winded, Aramis’ shoulder is aching and d’Artagnan is panting, harsh breaths that wrack his entire frame and Aramis knows that the pain must be excruciating.

“You can stay a bit longer, but the minute I tell you to go, you must!” Miguel warns, “The old goat may not do us any bodily harm, but the boy…he can’t take anymore punishment Señor,” Miguel says anxiously.

Aramis assures him he won’t do anything to endanger d’Artagnan and while the boy settles, Aramis finds his uniform - leather breeches, doublet and of course his precious pauldron - tossed here and there on the stone floor and he carefully folds the garments and puts them aside, along with his boots. Then he takes d’Artagnan’s cloak and goes to the far side of the cell where he gives is a few hard whacks against the wall to loosen all the dust so that he can use it to cover his shivering brother. It’s so cold in the cell Aramis can’t believe that d’Artagnan has survived this long, he himself feels chilled to the bone and he’s not been mistreated and is dressed warmly in his shirt, waistcoat and his leather coat, how will the boy make it through this?

By now, d’Artagnan is no longer lucid. A combination of Raoul’s concoction, the fever and the pain have made him mostly incoherent and Aramis listens anxiously from where he’s now sitting cross legged on the freezing floor in front of him, as he mumbles something about dragons and magic swords, probably some childhood tale or memory, he thinks, and he takes d’Artagnan’s burning hand in his, rubbing it gently between the two of his.

His touch startles d’Artagnan and his eyes open sluggishly and the mumbling stops. “Aramis?”

“I’m here, brother,” he assures him, dread filling him at the thought of leaving him alone again. It will be dark soon and if he wakes in the night, alone and feverish…the thought makes Aramis sick. _Porthos, why haven’t you found us yet_ , he wonders anxiously. D’Artagnan will surely die if they remain here much longer.

“The dragon is coming Aramis,…I feel him, I feel his breath on my neck, I see his yellow eyes…” the boy says dully, sounding resigned to his fate, “and I’ve lost my magic sword…” he breathes.

“There’s no dragon, dearest brother, only the fever, heating your skin, and the yellow glow you see is the flame of the candle that Miguel lit for us,” Aramis explains calmly, trying to pacify the suffering boy, tears spilling silently down his face. How can he possibly leave him alone like this?

“No, you must go! Please… hide yourself from the dragon, run, now!” d’Artagnan tells him fearfully, clearly hallucinating, the fever stealing his reason.

“Señor Aramis I’m sorry, you need to leave! They’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it!” Miguel insists anxiously from the open door, but Aramis ignores him as his brother fights his imaginary beast, twisting his body and trying to roll onto his back. Aramis gets to his knees and puts both hands on him to keep him still, but there’s not an inch of him that isn’t bruised or slashed and no matter where he touches him, Aramis knows he’s causing pain. Eventually, d’Artagnan settles once again on his stomach, but almost instantly his body goes rigid and tense. 

“Aramis, have you got my wedding ring?” d’Artagnan gasps, as if suddenly remembering. “Dragons steal shiny things…please brother, you must keep it safe…for Constance…” he slurs.

Aramis takes d’Artagnan’s hot, dry hand in his and he leans over and puts the ring and the crucifix in his palm.

“Right here, lad, safe and sound, I keep it hidden under my shirt, the dragon won’t take it I swear…”

“Aramis!” Miguel implores.

Aramis shakes his head, mind make up. “No, I’m staying here, tell them whatever you want, say I stole your weapon and held you at gunpoint, anything you please, but I’m not leaving him! How can I go back to my warm, clean bed and leave him here in this freezing, filthy hovel? How can you ask me to do that, especially now that he’s so gravely ill!” Aramis hisses, overwhelmed by rage and despair. D’Artagnan has once again slipped into unconsciousness and he looks so still it makes Aramis scramble to find a pulse. 

“He will die here with no one to look after him…he needs food and water and compresses for the fever…and someone to soothe him…keep him still and calm…” Aramis tells him, one hand on the boy’s wrist, feeling the faint but steady rhythm, tears sliding unashamedly down his face.

“I promise I’ll do all of that, you know I will…” Miguel insists earnestly.

“I know you’ll try but you can’t be here all the time, what if he dies alone, Miguel. Hmn? What if he dies calling out for me…” Aramis says on a sob, feeling utterly helpless. 

“Aramis, you must see reason! My uncle would kill him in a heartbeat to punish you! Please, I beg of you…”

“No, he may very well die anyway, Miguel,” Aramis says dully. “Unless you’re prepared to drag me out of here of course…reinjuring my shoulder in the process,” he adds pointedly, wiping at the tears on his face with the back of his hand, “otherwise I’m not moving. If Navarro tries to kill him for my actions then he will have to kill me too.”

D’Artagnan stirs again, and he begins to fuss, moving around and mumbling more nonsense about dragons and swords and fire, clearly agitated. Aramis sits back against the wall and mindful of d’Artagnan’s dislocated shoulder, he gently pulls him into his lap, resting the boy’s head and chest across his thighs, and at once, he seems to relax. 

Aramis looks up to meet Miguel’s worried gaze. “If he’s going to die, it will be right here, in my arms, not alone on this cold, filthy floor,” Aramis says quietly and with conviction. “And if we’re both to die, then we will die together.”

Defeated, Miguel enters the cell and takes d’Artagnan’s doublet, folds it inside-out and into four and places it under the lad’s face so that he can rest easier. 

“I will bring your cloak, some food and water, and something for the pain. After this, you may not see me again,” Miguel says sadly and he hurries to bring what he’s promised. He returns quickly with Aramis’ blue cloak, a jug with water, a bundle with bread and cheese and a small pouch. 

“I will fetch you a cup and spoon, measure half a cup of water to one spoon of powder, it will help with the pain. If he worsens, you may give him two or three spoons…to ease his suffering,” Miguel says stumbling over that last part. “I’ll get you a bucket with water and some rags as well, to cool him, but I don’t know what will happen when the general returns…”

“Are you in danger, Miguel?” Aramis asks, suddenly frightened for this man who has risked so much to help them.

“No, I’ve always been his favourite, I’ll tell him you grabbed my pistol and forced me to open the door as you suggested, there was no way to remove you without causing you bodily harm so I just left you in here for now.”

“Are you sure?” Aramis presses, doubtful. “I don’t know if my conscience can take yet another person being harmed on my account.”

“No, at the very worst he may throw me in the brig for a few days, but I doubt he’d even do that, he’s afraid of my mother’s wrath, she’s older and she raised him after the death of my grandmother, trust me,” Miguel says with a hint of a smile.

“God bless you, friend, if d’Artagnan lives it will only be because of your kindness…and Raoul’s of course,” Aramis tells him gratefully, his good right hand stroking the lad’s shoulders and his hair, trying to soothe his tremors from the fever and the twitching that he knows is from the pain.

“I’ll get a cup and mix up the pain draught for you so it’s ready, I’ll put some wine instead of water and you can add a bit of bread like yesterday, maybe he’ll be able to take a few bites…” the Spaniard says and he rushes out only to return moments later with the draught mixed into a half cup of wine, a bucket of water and a few rags, and he puts it all on the floor close enough for Aramis to reach.

“If he worsens…” Miguel begins and then stops to clear his throat. “As I said before, if you feel that his suffering is no longer bearable, you can give him a few more spoons of powder from the pouch…”

Aramis clearly understands what Miguel is not saying; if d’Artagnan does not improve and his suffering becomes unbearable Aramis can choose to help him slip away. Aramis knows that it would be the kindest thing to do for anyone who had no hope of recovery, but he would never and could never make that choice, not for d’Artagnan or for any of his fellow Musketeers, that decision belongs to God alone and Aramis wouldn’t ever presume to know better than God. Besides, Aramis is still clinging to the belief that Porthos and Athos will find them in time, hope dies last they say and that hope, along with his faith, bolster his slipping optimism despite everything stacked against them.

“Goodbye, Aramis,” Miguel says sadly, and Aramis knows that whatever the outcome, the General will not allow Miguel to come near them again.

“Goodbye my friend and God keep you safe,” Aramis replies softly.

When the door closes, the candle blows out and Aramis is left in the dark, his shoulder stinging, his body nearly numb from the cold and his young brother clinging to life by a tattered thread.

 

***********************************************

 

Porthos is greatly relieved when late into the evening eight Musketeers ride into their make-shift camp at the mill.

“What’s going on? Where’s Alphonse?” Porthos asks, confused.

“The Captain sent us after you last night but earlier today we met that bastard on the road, he told us you were at the abbey!” Pierre says furiously. “The abbey though is crawling with Spanish soldiers, we didn’t approach, not without your orders, sir, so we turned back, figuring we’d find you somewhere along the road or here,” the younger man explains, climbing down from his horse.

“So I’m guessing you don’t know Henri is ill and needs medical supplies either…I assume those won’t be coming if he’s working against us,” Porthos says angrily.

“No, but we’ve come well-supplied, and Jacques is like a walking medical volume and his saddlebags are always full of herbs and potions, he’ll know what to do,” Pierre replies comfortingly. 

Porthos grunts. “Right, come on, you and I have a meeting to attend with the rest of the scouts, at gun-point!”

“Yes, and I have some information to share with you, sir, something I overheard, Captain says for your ears only. But now that it’s obvious to all that Alphonse is working against us, it’s no longer a secret, it’s just a matter of trying to find out if any of the others are as well.”

Porthos nods and tells Jacques to see to Henri at once and orders the rest of the Musketeers to take care of the horses and set up a safe perimeter. Pistol drawn, he and Pierre head over to the campfire where the other three scouts are preparing food.

“So Alphonse is a traitor, this soldier here’s confirmed it, how do we know that none of you are as well?” Porthos growls, and Pierre puts a hand on his arm, silently reminding him that he must remain calm.

“You can only take our word for it, Monsieur, I’ve already told you that I can vouch for these men and of course for myself, France is my country…even if the King periodically forgets our existence we are still loyal citizens, doing a job that pays us well and keeps our country safe,” Denis tells him proudly. “Alphonse is a big mouth and a braggart, but I wouldn’t have expected him to be a traitor. If your man says he is, I’ll take his word for it.”

“I overheard him saying it would be better to be paid by both sides, you were all present, why did none of you report this?” Pierre questions.

“Because I thought it was said in jest, and I put him in his place, he seemed contrite,” Nicolas says, shaking his head. “I could never have imagined he was making a confession…” the other man says regretfully.

“What about you?” Porthos asks Michel, who hasn’t said a word.

“I have a sick child, Monsieur, I want no part in treason and have no need to earn any dirty money from the Spanish, her illness can’t be treated for all the gold in the world,” Michel says dully and Porthos believes him.

“Sir, the Spanish are using the abbey as an outpost; aside from Henri and maybe one of these men who will have to stay behind and tend to him, we are eleven, I’m sure we can best them,” Pierre tells him with confidence as they distance themselves from the scouts.

“No, it’ll have to be just be us, lad, it’s not even a matter of trust anymore, when we fight, we’re in sync, we have each other’s backs, we’re not like any other regiment or company and if we try to go into battle with anyone else in our ranks it’ll be to our disadvantage,” Porthos reasons, knowing in his gut it’s the right decision. “Denis and I also rode to the abbey earlier today, this has become like a tragic comedy of errors, we must have just missed each other,” he says ruefully, cursing the time they’ve lost. If they’d met up with these men earlier they would have already had a plan and been ready to attack tonight. Maybe they can still get organised, he thinks, it all depends on how tired the riders are, as fatigue will hinder a rescue attempt for sure and needlessly put lives at risk. “You and your men need to eat and rest and then we’ll decide what to do.”

Pierre is a natural leader and he quickly gets the camp organised, tents set up and food cooking, and Porthos steals a moment to check on the ailing Henri who seems to be resting easier with Jacques’ tea in his belly and pungent poultice on his chest. He’s just coming out of their shared tent when one of the Musketeers on guard duty announces the arrival of their Captain, accompanied by Lacroix. Porthos hurries to meet his friend who looks exhausted and distraught to say the least.

“The short version?” he asks Porthos, who is full of questions before the man even gets a chance to dismount.

“I’ll take any version,” Porthos grunts, concerned.

“Alphonse tried to kill me, Aramis is mostly fine, d’Artagnan, not fine. They are being held in the abbey.”

“Does the long version include why the hell he tried to kill you and why d’Artagnan is not fine?” Porthos queries, trembling with fury.

“Alphonse betrayed their mission to his employer, a General Navarro, and when they were ambushed some of the soldiers recognised them from the duel. This Navarro then decided I should be killed to avenge his dead officer, an eye for an eye apparently, and d’Artagnan should be punished for his part as well. He thinks Aramis is a monk so he hasn’t touched him, sounds like the boy’s doing, that one,” Athos finishes wearily.

Porthos nods. “Did you kill Alphonse? I’ll be mighty angry if you did without waiting for me to interrogate him properly,” Porthos growls, his head full of all the horrible things that Alphonse deserves done to his person.

“No, Alphonse, minus a few of his fingers is being held in detention and I have no choice to hand him over to Dubois when we return, to be sent to the Chatelet for life, it was the only way to get him to cooperate. Something tells me the rest of his life in that prison will be a fate worse than torture or death, brother, we’ve all been locked up in there at one time or another, I’m sure you'll agree with my assessment.”

“Did he say if d’Artagnan is already…” Porthos can’t bring himself to ask the entire question.

Athos tenses. “No he’s not, but he may be soon. We need a plan.”

“Denis knows the abbey well, he’ll map it out for us so we can have the advantage. But Athos, they’re not coming with us, there’s eleven of us now, they can stay and tend to Henri, I only want Musketeers at my side for this battle, there’s too much at stake.”

Athos nods. “Agreed. Let’s make sure everyone gets food and rest but we must move quickly, that bastard made d’Artagnan’s situation sound dire, we can’t afford to waste anymore time.”

Porthos rests one hand on his Captain’s shoulder, trying to offer comfort. “He’ll be fine, he’s got more lives than a cat…so does Aramis for that matter,” Porthos says, trying to convince the both of them that their brothers will be fine. 

They have to be, Porthos thinks, anything else would simply be unacceptable.

To be continued.....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for the delay, one of my offspring was home for a few weeks and so the writing had to wait:)
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by the lovely Arduna but after she sent it back to me all nice and tidy I messed with it so all mistakes are mine. Thanks so much for taking the time my friend!

Aramis spends the next few hours slipping in and out of consciousness with the tormented d’Artagnan clutched desperately in his arms. 

His body feels sluggish and heavy and at some point he’d stopped shivering, a sign that he is suffering the effects of the extreme cold. During a short period of lucidity he’d managed to bathe d’Artagnan’s burning face, neck and shoulders in cool water from the bucket but it had been an excruciatingly difficult task for the both of them. When he was done Aramis had fallen back against the frozen stone wall physically depleted, and he’d gathered the muttering and restless boy back into his lap where they’d both fallen into a fitful sleep that was quickly interrupted by d’Artagnan’s renewed thrashing.

The door doesn’t open and no one comes to take him away. Aramis has no idea what is happening outside their cell but at the moment all he cares about is doing whatever is in his power to keep d’Artagnan alive, which unfortunately is not very much. He’d managed to get him to take the concoction that Miguel had left for him as well as some water, but the draught seems to have had very little effect on the lad’s pain. Aramis’ hands are numb from the cold but he still does his best to try to cool his brother’s face again with the nearly frozen water but it doesn’t appear to actually do anything to ease d’Artagnan’s suffering.

Aramis has no idea how d’Artagnan had survived for so many days in this cell where the cold burns your throat and seeps into your bones until they ache. What he isn’t aware of though is that the temperature has dropped considerably in the past few hours, worsening the already icy conditions of the cell and Aramis, still weak and not fully recovered from the wound in his shoulder is in no position to be sitting on the freezing stone floor with his back against the frigid wall, the cold and damp literally stealing his ability to think clearly or focus. 

His mind drifts, and at some point he thinks he's back in Paris at the Palace and he sees their beloved Constance and she’s holding his little boy, the child that will never be his despite the fact that he is Aramis’ flesh and blood, and he thinks of the boy’s mother and mourns what might have been between them. He then morbidly imagines Treville informing them of his and d’Artagnan’s deaths; Anne, by obligation stoic, and Constance devastated by the loss of the love of her life, their tumultuous relationship coming to an abrupt and painful end before it really ever began, would she be able to face this last and final blow?

Suddenly, Paris fades and he finds himself sitting around a crackling fire with Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan, their youngest laughing gleefully at something that Porthos is saying, and Aramis can’t remember the last time he’d heard him laugh like that, can’t remember if he’d _ever_ actually heard him sound that happy in the three years that he’s known him. There’s snow on the ground and it’s bitterly cold but no one seems overly bothered and Athos is watching them all with a fond, content smile. Aramis reaches over to touch his brother’s arm, but when he makes contact, Athos slowly disappears into a cloud of ash along with Porthos and d’Artagnan and Aramis is left alone. The flat plain suddenly morphs into a forest and in place of his brothers there are bodies littered all over the white-covered earth, swords and pistols scattered beside familiar blue cloaks and Aramis, sickened, lets of a silent scream of grief. 

He is shaken painfully back to awareness by d’Artagnan’s tortured ramblings, which have become more and more troubling with every passing moment. It had started with the dragon and the magic sword but now his fevered mind is conjuring up much darker things and Aramis can’t stop the tears from falling, not when the boy is fighting imaginary demons and terrifying angels with black wings, and he wonders if he should give him some more of the pain draught; the idea of his young brother’s last thoughts on earth being of some fiery pit awaiting him is simply unthinkable to Aramis.

Instead, he tries to rouse him, and he attempts to get him to focus on his face with soft words and gentles touches. When he shows no sign of waking Aramis regretfully squeezes d’Artagnan’s mangled shoulder to get a response but there is none aside from a tiny pained gasp before d’Artagnan is quickly dragged back to whatever nightmare is gripping him and Aramis is clearly no longer someone he recognises.

The hours slip by and tiny pinpricks of light coming in through the covering on the broken window tell the near-delirious Aramis that it’s sun up and he shakes his head weakly in an attempt to clear his muddled brain, his numb arms instinctively tightening on the precious burden in his lap. At once, he realises that d’Artagnan is not moving nor mumbling, his bruised face is lax and there are no tremors or shivers coming from the boy’s battered frame and Aramis, his own hypothermic body near to the point of no return, fingers too frozen to feel a pulse, hears a voice in his head tell him that d’Artagnan is gone.

There’s a moment of total shock, where Aramis gets a flash of the first time he’d ever seen the young man, all brash bravado and single-minded determination and he wonders how it could be possible that someone so full of vivacity, and with so much more life left to live could be gone. And yet, here he is, lying on Aramis’ lap, still as a corpse, no rise and fall of his chest and no sign of a heartbeat under Aramis’ sluggishly probing hands. 

How he finds the strength, he doesn’t know, but Aramis manages to pull the boy’s lifeless body higher up into his arms. He rests his chin on the top of the lad’s head and he rocks him slowly, gently, clinging to his still-warm body with dry eyes and his heart completely numb, his last clear thought before he slides into unconsciousness is that he’d failed him…and in doing so he’d failed them all. 

 

***********************************************

 

Thoroughly exhausted soldiers and unbearably cold temperatures force Athos and Porthos to wait until morning to set out on their rescue mission.

Henri is somewhat improved but it’s agreed that Jacques should stay behind with the scouts to take care of the young man. It’s no longer a matter of trust; Athos also wants Jacques to be rested and ready to take care of Aramis and d’Artagnan, since the Captain has no idea in what state they will find their brothers.

The day dawns clear but blustery cold and the Musketeers set out for the Abbey heavily armed and fully prepared to face down whatever they should encounter; Porthos knows that Alphonse’s betrayal has fueled the already burning fire that had been lit under his men when they’d been informed that Aramis and d’Artagnan had been taken. The fact that they are also expecting to find at least one of them injured, possibly gravely, is the incentive they need to keep themselves disciplined and focused, since the sooner they are able to dispatch their enemies, the faster they will be able to get their brothers to safety.

Porthos and Athos have taken up the front and Pierre and Lacroix the rear, the remaining seven men keeping the pace set by their Captain as they ride carefully over the snowy landscape of northern France, everyone silent and lost in their own thoughts, mentally preparing for battle in their own, individual way, some using prayer to bolster their courage, others focusing on loved ones back home and their desire to return to them hearty and hale. It’s often been the subject of fire-side chats and Porthos marvels at the different ways these men, some still mostly boys, others in their middle years, find the bravery to face down possible death in every skirmish, attack or full-scale battle and never waver, and he knows that a great deal of the Musketeers’ extraordinary courage comes from steady and honourable leadership. It’s a damn good thing the Red Guard isn’t at the front, fighting to keep their nation safe, with the Cardinal and later Rochefort as their role models, Porthos is sure they’d have all been speaking Spanish months ago.

They stop at the same spot that Porthos and Denis had left their horses the day before and Lacroix and Pierre set off on foot to scout the area and the determine how many soldiers are guarding the Abbey. The rest of them men take the opportunity to give the horses a rest, stretch their legs and check their weapons. Athos is quiet, more than usual and clearly pensive. Porthos, feeling the same, lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Worrying will give you a nasty headache, Captain,” Porthos says quietly. “I’m sure they’re fine and I’m positive that you’ll get all of these lads safely back to camp before lunch time,” the big man tells him confidently, because he knows that Athos is not only worried about their two missing brothers, he is responsible for the rescue party as well and Athos is a fair and decent man who cares for every single soldier under his command. 

The two Musketeers return from their brief mission in record time, winded and with truly surprising news to impart.

“There are only two soldiers that we could see; I don’t know if there are more inside but it doesn’t make sense, only two men guarding the church, the monks cells and the courtyard, something is definitely amiss,” Pierre reports, trying to catch his breath.

“Porthos?” Athos questions simply and the big man knows that their Captain values his tactical instincts, even over his own.

“Honestly? No idea, Captain, but we should move, if there’s two now more could be coming, it’s to our advantage to move quickly.”

They hurriedly decide to continue on horseback since they will need their horses close by for a quick escape and with pistols in hand they ride hard towards the Abbey and at Athos' command they stop a few yards from the main gate, which is suddenly being pulled open and a old man of at least sixty, dressed in civilian clothes, appears in the opening, waving a white flag.

“This is getting more bizarre by the moment,” Athos mutters. Porthos can only guess whoever is stationed within the walls of the Abbey must have detected the horses and decided that it was in their best interests to surrender. Athos orders Pierre and Lacroix to dismount and investigate with Porthos. Pistols drawn, they move forward carefully, Porthos fully expecting an ambush but instead he finds only the old man waving a stick with a piece of a sheet tied to it and three other soldiers, unarmed and with their hands raised above the heads.

“Senor, I am Lieutenant Miguel Alvarez, and there are only four of us here, unarmed and we wish to cause you no trouble,” the officer tells the very startled and suspicious Porthos in accented but fluent French as he comes forward cautiously. “If you are here for the two French soldiers you should hurry, they are in the cellar, down those stairs,” he says, indicating the stone stairs leading from the courtyard to a large wooden door below. 

“Lacroix tell the Captain what’s going on here, Pierre, both pistols on those two, I don’t think they’re as pleased to see us as their Lieutenant is,” Porthos tells him, indicating the two surly-looking soldiers behind the old man and Miguel. “I’m going to check the cellar.”

“Sir, it could be a trap,” Pierre hisses but Alvarez interrupts whatever else he was going to say. “It’s no trap young man,” the Spaniard says wearily. “I swear on the graves of my dead wife and child that I wish no harm to any of you, just please hurry, the younger one, d’Artagnan, he is…unwell and the rest of our Company can return at any time.”

Porthos checks both of his pistols and he rushes down the stairs, trusting his instincts. He opens the heavy door and finds himself inside of a store room that smells suspiciously of old blood, and from the meagre light shining through one of the two tiny windows he can see that the floor is stained with it. There are two rooms that appear to be cells, one is open and empty, the other is bolted shut with a heavy bar securing it closed from the outside. Porthos holsters his pistols to his weapons belt in order to use both hands to push the bar up and he then pulls the creaking wood panel outward.

Once the door is open Porthos blinks to adjust his eyes to the semi-darkness and it’s then that he finally lays eyes his two missing brothers; d’Artagnan is lying in Aramis’ lap, covered in his filthy blue cape and Aramis is sitting with his back to the wall completely still, his torso sagging to one side and his head hanging forward and neither of them has moved a muscle at the sound of the door creaking open. Porthos needs a moment to collect himself before he can go any further. The cell stinks of mould and urine and blood and sickness and Porthos feels a rage rising inside of him that he hasn’t felt since the night the boy had fought the now infamous duel. Someone will pay very dearly for this, he vows, and he moves forward haltingly, almost afraid to see if his brothers are alive or dead.

Aramis lifts his head slowly and opens his eyes, mostly likely startled to awareness by the sound of Porthos’ boots and his clanging weapons and he blinks, clearing his vision, and then his face crumples into a mask of grief.

“He’s gone, Porthos,” Aramis whispers dully. 

Porthos goes rigid with shock and stops in his tracks, and he finds himself falling to one knee half way between himself and his brothers, feeling utterly stunned, his chest constricting and his shoulders shaking, and he feels someone sweep in past him…Athos he thinks…and he looks up and sees their Captain fall into a crouch and place his hand on d’Artagnan’s neck.

“He’s not dead, brother, I promise,” Athos quickly informs Aramis, who seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness, and Porthos literally jumps to his feet and surges forward, suddenly hopeful.

“He must be delusional, from the cold,” Athos is saying, his hands on Aramis’ face, “he’s frozen, his skin is like ice, but the boy is burning with fever, which makes him very much alive,” Athos assures the big man who is now trembling, not from fear but relief. “It’s probably what kept Aramis alive, body heat,” he explains clinically but Porthos is barely listening, all he cares is that they are alive and he intends to keep them that way. He sweeps the lad up into his arms as gently as he possibly can and Pierre enters and rushes by him, his expression grim but determined. He helps Athos get Aramis to his feet and they move out of the filthy cell with as much haste as the situation allows. 

The Spanish officer, Alvarez, is waiting for them outside the door and he suggests they treat Aramis’ hypothermia in the adjacent cell and although Porthos distrusts the man mightily, they really have no choice; if they don’t warm him up they will surely lose him on the ride back to the mill. Athos agrees and they shuffle into a much cleaner and considerably warmer cell with a bed and a cot. Porthos lays his precious burden on the cot and kneels beside the boy while Athos and Pierre remove Aramis’ boots and leather coat and begin to rub his fingers and toes vigorously, then his arms and lower legs and to Porthos’ surprise, the Spaniard Miguel appears again with a pile of blankets.

Eventually, Aramis appears to come back to himself, his eyes clearing and he begins to shiver and Porthos knows that’s a good thing. Athos and Pierre continue to rub his extremities until Aramis pulls away forcefully and shocks them all with loud, painful sobs.

“Athos, I let him die,” he tells their Captain, sounding utterly devastated, face tear-stained and twisted with grief, “what will I tell Constance?” he asks desolately, his voice a harsh, painful-sounding rasp.

“D’Artagnan is not dead, brother, he’s simply unconscious, you didn’t let him die, you saved him and he you, the heat of his body kept you alive and it was surely your embrace that kept him tethered to this world,” Athos soothes. 

Aramis looks doubtful. “I…couldn’t find a pulse…he wasn’t breathing…”

“You hands were frozen, your fingers had started to turn blue, there was no way you could have felt a pulse, and you probably couldn’t detect the rise and fall or his chest either in your condition, I promise you, Aramis, his heart is still beating strong despite the state of him. Jacques has come along, he’s waiting nearby to tend to him, between the two of you I’m sure our lad with be right as rain in no time.”

“They beat him, starved him…and they flogged him,” Aramis says in a pained whisper. “And his…his mind, Athos…he sees things, terrible things…”

Porthos stiffens and the hand he has on the lad’s back recoils; he has no idea what they will find under the filthy clothes and bloody bandages, and no idea if he’s hurt him worse just by picking him up, by touching him, but the rage and fury within him continues to swell and boil, and he needs a minute to control the urge to break the neck of the Spaniard who is hovering nervously by the door.

“Gentlemen, you should go, before the others return…” the Lieutenant says fretfully. 

“Miguel,” Aramis breathes. “Athos, this man has helped us tremendously, without him d’Artagnan might have died the first night we were taken.”

Athos looks up and his expression shows recognition, and when Porthos takes a closer look he too recognises the man. “You…I know you, from that night…” is all Porthos can say because d’Artagnan lets out a feeble but horrible sound and the big man instantly turns to the boy, who is muttering something about…angels? Pothos feels a shiver go down his spine and he turns to his comrades. 

“The Spaniard is right, we need to move now, he’ll not last if Jacques doesn’t tend to him quickly, and you’re not looking much better, brother,” Porthos says to Aramis, who appears as if he hasn’t slept in days, the purple bruises under his eyes standing out starkly against the pasty-white of his skin. He’s holding his left arm stiffly, close to his chest and there’s a bandage poking out from under his shirt. “What did they do to you?” Porthos growls.

“Shot, but it’s fine, almost healed,” Aramis says dismissively.

“Aramis, you must go! The General hasn’t returned as scheduled, something must have gone wrong with his meeting, but he will come back eventually, you must leave, the two soldiers your friends are guarding in the courtyard will turn on us at the first opportunity!” Alvarez urges in rapid Spanish and although neither Porthos or Athos are fluent they understand most of it and it’s Athos who replies to the Spaniard, not Aramis.

“I think it’s safe to assume your General had a meeting with his spy yesterday,” Athos says in French. “If he’s been delayed waiting for his return he will have been waiting in vain since the traitor has been apprehended. I appreciate what you’ve done for my men, your kindness will never be forgotten, Monsieur. The old gentleman, the one with the flag, who is he, the poor man seemed quite terrified?”

“The General’s personal physician, he helped your men and he’s now worried about the General’s wrath. But there’s no need, the bastard is my uncle, I will take the blame for everything that happened and smooth it over for the others. Now please, just go!” the Spaniard insists and he slips out the door.

The Musketeers don’t need to be told twice and Athos and Pierre hurriedly assist Aramis to dress while Porthos lifts the now-quiet d’Artagnan as gently as possible into his arms. The lad seems to weigh nothing he notes with barely controlled fury, and when he remembers how long it had taken them to get him fighting fit again it makes him want to kill someone, actually _many_ someones. 

Miguel comes back into the cell carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket and offers it to Athos.

“The boy’s uniform, I’m sure he’ll be needing it in no time,” he tells Athos confidently, but Porthos can see the doubt and the sadness on the other man’s face as he says the words. More likely the Spaniard is thinking they’ll be burying him in it. That won’t be happening though, not on my watch, Porthos thinks, tightening his hold on d’Artagnan.

“Miguel, you and Senor Raoul can come with us, we can keep you safe…” Aramis begins, getting to his feet shakily with Pierre’s help.

“Aramis, I promise, he won’t hurt me, truly, I’ll be spending some time in the brig for sure, but even there, I’ll be treated fairly. Remember, the old goat is terrified of my mother,” Miguel reminds him with a wry smile and he takes a few steps back so that the Musketeers can exit the cell and take their leave.

It’s a struggle to get up the stairs but when they are all back up in the courtyard Porthos meets the gaze of one of the two soldiers who Lacroix and another Musketeer, Robard - an older member of their regiment in his mid-forties - are guarding, and he sees fury in the greasy-haired soldier’s eyes. Miguel will need to watch his back until his uncle returns, the big man thinks regretfully.

They quickly move out of the Abbey walls and it’s decided that Porthos will take d’Artagnan, and Aramis will ride with the leaner Lacroix for the sake of Athos’ already tired horse, when Lacroix lets out a loud curse.

“Captain, horses approaching!” he cries and even though no one else appears to have heard, Porthos knows with certainty that Lacroix is correct. Sure enough, a minute later, they all hear and feel the vibrations of at least six horses.

“Mount up, now!” Athos calls out urgently. “Pistols ready, Porthos, give me the lad, I’ll hand him up to you.”

Porthos hands him over as gently as possible and Pierre hurries over to help Athos lift the Gascon to sit astride in front of Porthos. Despite the fact that they’ve jostled the boy more than they would have liked, d’Artagnan doesn’t move a muscle or make a sound. Pierre ties the bundle with d’Artagnan’s uniform to his saddle and mounts up as the sound of thundering horses approaching sends fear through Porthos’ heart; he can’t hold the boy and fight, which leaves Athos with one man less and d’Artagnan mostly unprotected.

Eight Spanish soldiers appear from the northern side of the Abbey walls, led by the man that Porthos assumes is the General, a haughty-looking man in his late fifties or early sixties riding boldly at the head of his men. The Spanish are heavily armed, but their position hadn’t allowed them to be aware of the French soldiers until the moment they rode around the perimeter of the Abbey towards the front gate, so thankfully they haven’t had the chance to reach for their firearms before coming face to face with the Musketeers. They stop a few yards back from the French at the command of the General, who surprisingly rides forward to meet the armed Athos unflinchingly. 

“What an unpleasant surprise,” the older man tells Athos in near-perfect French, a sneer on his face, one hand settled on the pistol at his waist.

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” Athos replies drily. “However, there’s no need for any further… _unpleasantness_ , you will ride into the Abbey and close the gates and then we will then take our leave. Not a shot needs to be fired.”

“What you propose is perfectly acceptable, aside from one minor detail; that little wretch you call a Musketeer stays, everyone else can go peacefully.”

Pothos tightens his grip on the unconscious d’Artagnan and his gaze flitters to Aramis, mounted behind the horrified Lacroix, hoping that their Spanish-speaking brother can somehow diffuse the situation.

“General, the boy is of no use to you, he’s been hovering close to death since your departure and this is surely not the time or place for a firefight, there will be plenty of battlefields for us to meet and solve our differences,” Aramis reasons, addressing the bastard in Spanish as expected, but Porthos gets the gist of it. “Besides, I think we have you and your men at a disadvantage,” he adds, indicating the Musketeers who are each holding at least one pistol, some two, his voice steady even as Porthos can see he is barely keeping himself upright.

“Do not underestimate how quickly my men can reach for their firearms, Brother Aramis, surely you can attest to their efficiency? After all, they managed to overtake you and that filthy whelp rather easily if you recall?” the General replies in French, his tone dripping with mockery.

“Regardless, you will suffer losses as well; ride through the gates, General, and we will depart,” Aramis counters, also in French.

To Porthos’ astonishment, Miguel, hands held high, comes through the main entrance from the courtyard and stops in front of Porthos’ horse.

“General, for the sake of your eternal soul, let the boy go, I assure you he will not survive the ride back to their camp, allow these men to bury him with the last rites, God will surely look favourably upon you for your mercy,” the Lieutenant implores his uncle. If Porthos had any doubts about the man’s sincerity they are lost when he sees the genuine sadness in the man’s eyes as he speaks of d’Artagnan. The longer this negotiation takes, the more likely the man’s half-truths will come to pass, though, since d’Artagnan, while still alive, is a burning, dead weight in his arms.

The two soldiers they’d encountered earlier suddenly emerge from the courtyard, armed now, one with a musket the other holding a pistol and both have their weapons pointed at the unarmed Porthos and the unconscious d’Artagnan. 

Miguel protests loudly and raises his arms higher, and as their superior officer he chastises the two soldiers in rapid Spanish. Although Porthos doesn’t fully understand what the Spaniard has said his expression and his body language clearly say that he’s ordered them to stand down. One of the two, the one with the greasy hair who’d given Porthos the death stare earlier, looks to the General, who, to Porthos’ horror, gives the slightest nod. 

What happens next will haunt Porthos’ dreams for months to come.

His first instinct is to protect d’Artagnan and Porthos immediately twists around in the saddle and uses his knees to turn his horse to put own body between the musket ball and his precious charge. At the same moment, Miguel, obviously horrified at what they all now suspect will happen surges forward towards the greasy-haired soldier.

Porthos hears the General let out a sharp _‘NO’!_ but it comes too late; the trigger has been pulled, and the shot, aimed high to hit d’Artagnan, slams into Lieutenant Alvarez’s forehead instead. Miguel collapses at once, his body hitting the frozen ground with a soft thud.

Stunned, Porthos turns to see the man who accidentally killed Miguel fall dead, shot by a Spanish soldier with an ugly scar across his face and the General, all his haughtiness stripped aside, stumbles off his horse and falls to his knees in the snow beside the fallen Lieutenant, a loud wail of grief breaking the awful, stunned silence of the aftermath of the kind man’s senseless death. The old physician appears, stumbling towards Miguel’s still form and he kneels beside him, vainly searching for any sign of life before removing a rosary from his coat pocket and reciting what Porthos assumes are the last rites.

Athos takes advantage of the grim situation and orders his men to retreat. Porthos, concerned for Aramis, dares a glance over at his brother, who is weeping openly but thankfully, he doesn’t lose his hold on Lacroix when the young Musketeer turns his horse and follows their Captain’s orders. Pierre and Robard come to flank Porthos and they urge the stunned Musketeer to move. 

No one follows and not one shot is fired at their retreating backs. Porthos, horrified by the thought of what could have happened tightens his grip on his lifeless charge and with only the use of his knees and his years of fighting in the saddle, he guides his horse across the snowy terrain and towards safety.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks and love to Arduna for the beta, as always I tinkered with it after she did so all mistakes are of course mine:)

The ride back to the old mill is excruciating for the Captain of the Musketeers.

It takes them almost double the time to return; Porthos has had no choice but to have both arms wrapped around d’Artagnan almost the entire ride since the boy was limp and unresponsive and with Aramis riding behind Lacroix the young Musketeer had to pace his horse’s stride carefully to not overtax the poor animal. It’s only due to the lad’s superior riding skills that he manages to travel the distance without killing his mount.

They arrive back at their temporary camp to find that Jacques and the scouts have managed to rig together three of the small tents that Pierre’s men had brought with them into one large structure and inside there is enough room for the two injured Musketeers to be accommodated and at least three men to stand fully upright at the same time. Henri, Athos is told, has thankfully continued to improve and is resting quietly.

By the time Lacroix helps Aramis dismount the older Musketeer is clearly ready to collapse. Robard takes most of Aramis’ weight and along with Athos they help him to the makeshift infirmary. Once settled, Robard begins to strip him of his filthy uniform and Aramis doesn’t object and nor does he assist him in any way, Athos notes worriedly. 

For the moment though, he needs to put his concern for Aramis aside because Porthos has entered the tent carrying d’Artagnan, who is a dead weight in the big Musketeer’s arms and it’s moments like these when Athos kicks himself for not finding an excuse for leaving the boy back in Paris. D’Artagnan is reckless at the best of times, but here on the front he has become self-sacrificial as well, something that Athos probably should have seen coming. He steels himself as he watches Porthos and the newly-arrived Jacques undress the lad, doing his utmost to not react physically to the sight of his misshapen shoulder or the oozing wounds on his back. Porthos though is cursing under his breath, threatening the entire Spanish army with his wrath, as more wounds become apparent; his shredded wrists, the bruises covering him from head to toe, the ghoulish-looking tint to the skin on his face where the bruising has turned green and yellow. The most troubling thing of all is that he has not stirred, not since that one, tiny sound he’d made hours before when they’d been trying to warm Aramis back at the Abbey, and that was it. 

Aramis, covered to the neck with a pile of blankets is lying on a cot assembled of discarded timbers, twine and part of a tent is silent and listless as Jacques and Porthos tend to d’Artagnan. Athos, no longer able to watch the two Musketeers at their grisly task, goes to kneel beside the unnaturally quiet Aramis, one hand immediately going to his forehead and then his neck to confirm that his body temperature has returned to normal and ascertain that he isn't still frozen nor feverish. To his relief, Aramis is neither, but his eyes are red and dull and he barely reacts or acknowledges Athos’ presence and gentle touch.

“Are you in pain, brother? Jacques will see to your wound as soon as he’s finished with the lad but if you need something to dull the pain please tell me,” Athos inquires softly, careful not to startle him.

“How will I tell him that Miguel is dead?” Aramis wonders, ignoring Athos’ question. “He’d taken care of him when I couldn’t, he was a good and honourable man, he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“No, he didn’t, but it’s not your fault or d’Artagnan’s fault, his uncle brought on the tragedy himself, and he has to live with that now. His hatred of d’Artagnan got the best of him and he has paid a very high price for that.”

Aramis closes his eyes and turns away from his Captain. “I was powerless to protect d’Artagnan, that bastard used him to persuade me to share information…and of course I couldn’t! I betrayed him, Athos, for the sake of France, but I feel no honour, only shame,” Aramis whispers dully. “He was treated like an animal, worse even, while I was kept in comfort, it was horrifying…he’ll never forgive me, I know I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

“Forgive you? From what I understand he deliberately created the ruse of the noble Spanish monk, to keep you safe because you were wounded, that’s the impression I was given by that snake Alphonse and it sounds like something the ridiculous boy would do. How could you ever imagine he’d hold you responsible?” Athos asks him, one hand finding its way to cup Aramis’ cheek. “He adores you, as does Constance, they both have the utmost respect and love for you, nothing you could do would ever warrant you needing to seek his forgiveness.”

Aramis turns his head slightly and open his eyes, staring at the canvas ceiling, one tear then another silently rolling down his bearded face and Athos feels his heart clench painfully for what they must have suffered. The Captain's hand automatically moves from where it's cupping Aramis' cheek to wipe his brother's tears away, a gesture so uncharacteristic of Athos that it momentarily startles the both of them.

“I don’t know how he will survive, he’s been so badly mistreated…” Aramis whispers desolately. “How could anyone do that? Treat another human being with such cruelty, especially one so young? I tried to make them stop, I fought, but Miguel had drugged me…not with malicious intent of course, but I was unable to get free and kill that bastard…”

Athos nods slowly and swallows, steeling his heart before he asks the next question. “And what exactly were they doing to him?” he inquires steadily, wondering if he even wants to know the answer to that.

“He was strung up like a slaughtered animal…he must have been there for hours by the state of his arms and wrists, and his shoulder had come out of its place again, so the pain must have been excruciating. Still, that stupid, brave boy took that son of a bitch to task over his treatment of me, it was like a nightmare…I actually thought it _had_ been at first, until Miguel told me otherwise,” Aramis admits, more tears rolling down his face. 

“I’m very grateful to Miguel but I can’t help but wonder what his motives were,” Athos muses, trying to change the subject. “Regardless, from what you say he saved our lad and for that alone I will always be thankful. You know I’m not much for religion but maybe you could lead a service of some kind, when we’re back at camp, for his soul. It doesn’t matter if I believe or not but when he spoke to the General on d’Artagnan’s behalf he mentioned the man’s ‘eternal soul’ so I’m assuming he was a faithful believer in God, I’m sure d’Artagnan would like that as well.”

Aramis closes his eyes and looks away again. “Don’t speak to me of God, brother, He and I are not on the best of terms at the moment!” Aramis hisses. “Where was God when d’Artagnan was being flogged…twice, or when he dreamt of demons coming for him? Where was God when he spent an entire night in that freezing cell in only his breeches, his back and his wrists shredded and exposed to the filth of that hellhole…it was hours before Miguel and I were able to tend to him, he was so weak Athos, that he hadn’t even had the strength to drag his cloak over himself…we found it next to him…”

Athos forces that utterly horrific image aside to be dealt with by his aching heart later, because he has never known Aramis to question God before, even at his worst moments, not after the massacre at Savoy or even his impending death by beheading, the Captain knows that he will need to tread very carefully if he will be able to help Aramis move past what he had endured in captivity. Aramis has always been the strongest of them, mostly because of his deep and steadfast faith...it’s always been a part of him...to see him waver is devastating.

But unfortunately Aramis’ disillusionment will need to wait, because at that moment d’Artagnan lets out a horrible cry of agony and Athos, though loathe to leave Aramis, turns to see what is happening with their youngest.

Now that his back has been washed it seems so much worse to Athos, deep lacerations that criss-cross over each other, one so deep Athos is surprised that there is no bone peeking through. A few look mostly healed, one or two like they are nearly there but there are three or four slashes that are truly ghastly; red, inflamed, and brimming with foul, yellow liquid and pus, and Athos actually thinks he might vomit. Jacques doesn’t have much experience with actual wound care, his knowledge is limited to salves and remedies, so it’s Porthos who has stripped down to his shirtsleeves and it carefully cleaning each infected slash as best as he can using strips of cloth and warm water infused with herbs. Athos indicates that Jacques should make room for him to kneel down by the lad’s side and he quietly tells the young Musketeer to have a look at Aramis’ shoulder wound and determine if it needs to be tended to.

He’s taken the coward’s way out up till now, reasoning that Aramis’ needed him by his side but there is no doubt that d’Artagnan is in very desperate straits and Athos can no longer stay away. He’s lying on a cot of similar construction to the one that Aramis is resting on, his face turned towards the outer wall of the tent and all the ugly bruises on the right side of his face stand out against the pasty pallor of his skin. His eye is blackened, and the Captain suspects it had been much worse from the discoloration, and he is no longer lying still nor unconscious. His eyes are fluttering like he’s struggling to wake and he’s speaking, saying something about an angel with black wings, and Athos feels his breath catch; he remembers what Aramis had said about his mind conjuring horrible things and for one terrible moment he wonders if the fever or whatever pain draughts Miguel or the physician may have given him have damaged his brain permanently. He’d seen it happen once, years before when he’d first joined the regiment and he hopes to the heavens that he never sees that happen to another soldier ever again. The man is now in a monastery where he spends his days wandering the grounds mute and mostly mindless.

“Aramis?” the boys asks, his raspy voice sounding hopeful and Athos leans closer and tangles one hand in his hair.

“No lad, it’s Athos, you’re safe now, you both are,” he soothes, his stomach twisting into knots as glances over at the stoic Porthos, who after his brief outburst of fury had gone silent and has not uttered another word since he’d begun his grim task.

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan cries, sounding frightened and suddenly he tries to twist his body around to find the brother he is seeking. Athos regretfully puts gently pressure on his shoulders to keep him still and this brings a gasp of agony from d’Artagnan’s throat, before he goes limp and falls into darkness once again. 

Porthos’ hands haven’t stopped moving nor has his expression changed from the blank, focused look on his swarthy face. Athos knows that the big Musketeer is barely keeping himself in check and that later, after d’Artagnan has been tended to and is settled, he will need to keep an eye on Porthos, lest their brother let his rage get the better of him.

“Sir, Aramis is asking about the boy, he heard him cry out…” Jacques says, concerned. “He wants to get up and see what’s happening but I’ve given him a pain draught and he’s unsteady.”

“Tell Aramis that d’Artagnan is doing just fine and that if he attempts to get off that cot I will sedate him in a way that will leave a nasty bruise,” he says quietly, mindful of the boy. “He’ll know what I mean.”

Jacques simply nods and retreats and Porthos looks up too meet Athos’ gaze, one brow raised questioningly.

“It’s the best way, you yourself can attest to that,” Athos informs him drily. “Are you finished, brother? It can’t be good to leave these wounds exposed for much longer.”

“Almost,” Porthos mutters. He empties the foul water from the bowl into a bucket and pours in the last of the warm, aromatic mixture from the pitcher into it and he soaks another bandage, taking one last swipe at the deepest of the unhealed wounds. This elicits another feeble cry for Aramis although d’Artagnan doesn’t fully wake this time and he quickly settles from Athos’ softly uttered words of comfort and his gentle, soothing touches.

“Jacques, you’re needed,” Porthos says sharply and he stands and takes a step back so that the younger Musketeer can take his place at d’Artagnan’s side.

“Captain, before I begin we’ll need to give him a draught for the pain and an infusion for the fever.”

Athos shakes his head. “No more pain medicines, not until we’re sure he is…” the Captain trails off and clears his throat. “Aramis was worried about the state of his…faculties.”

“Sir, if he doesn’t stay still he will do further damage to his shoulder and loosen the bandages and the poultices that I will apply to the wounds on his back and wrists, I promise you it won’t hurt him,” Jacques says earnestly.

Athos looks to Porthos for his advice and the big Musketeer shakes his head, his expression worried. “I don’t know, you heard him, he was saying things earlier…about angels and other nonsense, if Aramis was worried about his mind I think we should see if he recognises us before we dose him with any more potions.”

“With all due respect Sirs, he needs to remain calm and still, at least for the next few hours, so that my remedies can begin to fight the infection, otherwise he will be beyond help. Those slashes are a few days old, the longer they remain infected the higher that chance that they will carry poisons to the rest of his body.”

“How can you be sure your pain draught is safe to use on someone in his condition?” Athos questions.

“My aunt has been using it for years, even on myself and my siblings as children, it’s not dangerous, I promise.”

“Let him do it, Athos, the boy will have to be back in the saddle before nightfall, we’re sitting ducks here, the Spanish will come for us eventually,” Porthos says ominously. “If he gets a few hours of peaceful sleep that in itself will be in his favour.”

Athos nods reluctantly. “Alright, prepare it, Porthos is correct, we’ll need to move out in a few hours anyway, he’ll need his rest.”

It takes the three of them to manoeuvre him into a position to drink the half cup of liquid, Athos cajoling him in soft tones, urging him to swallow, while the boy repeatedly calls out for Aramis. Once they’re done they lay him carefully back down onto the cot and Jacques begins to apply the various poultices and powders that he’d prepared. He works quickly and silently, filling that horrific, gaping wound with a yellowish powder and he turns to Porthos and asks for his assistance.

“I’m going to try and push the deepest part closed and as soon as I do so, apply the bandage and hold it in place. Captain, I’ll need you to put the poultice _on top_ of the bandage where is will dampen the linen and hopefully hold the wound together, like an adhesive. I don’t think it should be stitched, the wound is too badly infected, but if we can get the two sides as close as possible the powder will be able to do its job to begin knitting the flesh inside together naturally.”

“If he moves it will just come undone,” Athos argues.

“The draught will take effect soon and I’ll wrap the whole thing with a bandage around his waist. Even if it remains closed for a few hours it will be long enough for the powder to begin to work,” the younger Musketeer insists confidently. “When we return to camp I will do it again, I’m almost certain it will be effective, it usually is.”

“First, we’ll need to pass the bandage around his stomach so it will be ready to tie off,” Jacques explains and he takes a long strip of clean linen while Porthos carefully lifts d’Artagnan’s hips and Athos reaches under the boy and grabs the other side of the clean bandage. Once that’s in place Jacques puts both his palms on the lad’s ravaged back and he pushes the middle section of the wound as close as possible. Porthos applies a bandage over the wound and Athos scoops the poultice on top and spreads it carefully with his fingers. With Jacques still pushing the two sides of the wound together Athos ties the bandage that they’d slipped under d’Artagnan as tightly as he can without causing any further injury.

When they’re done, Athos looks dubiously at the covered wound. “I don’t know how long that will stay in place,” he remarks doubtfully.

“It’s our only option at the moment and without Aramis’ help it’s all I can do. He may decide to stitch it shut when he’s feeling better but for now this the best way that I know to help d’Artagnan. My father had a similar infected wound, from an accident with an axe and my aunt treated him with this same root and herb powder and the injury began to heal after a few applications.”

Jacques applies the powder to some of the deeper wounds, a different poultice to the ones that appear to be healing and strips of linen are placed over each slash before his back is covered with a clean sheet. Jacques then turns his attention to the lad’s wrists that are equally horrific, binding them carefully after applying a thick layer of paste. As Jacques had expected, d’Artagnan does not move and for now, everything stays in place. They cover him with a warm blanket and Athos gets to his feet.

“Before we ride we will need to wrap his torso to keep those bandages in place, maybe give him some more of the draught, he will be in an inordinate amount of pain if he wakes on the road, Captain,” the young man informs him tentatively.

Athos nods. “Thank you, lad, now go, check on Henri and get something to eat and some rest,” he urges. “Advise Pierre that he’s to make sure everyone has a meal and a few hours rest in shifts, we’ll need to ride before dark. Also, have Robard find a shirt and a pair of breeches for d’Artagnan to wear on the ride back to camp, some stockings as well.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jacques replies softly and after a quick check on the now sleeping Aramis he departs, leaving Athos and Porthos alone with their two injured comrades.

“Brother, you’ll need to carry him back to camp, go get some rest, I’ll stay,” Athos suggests, pulling a one of the two feed barrels that someone had thought to bring into the their temporary infirmary to use as chairs, closer to d’Artagnan’s cot. 

Porthos drops to the ground, clearly exhausted and pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on his arms.

“This feels eerily familiar, only after the attack on our camp it was you and not Aramis lying beside d’Artagnan,” Porthos muses, ignoring Athos’ suggestion that he get some rest. “I’ve been soldiering for a long time, Athos, and I’ve always known it’s my calling, my _duty_ to serve, but now…now I just feel weary.”

“Porthos…”

“What happened to them, it wasn’t war where men are sent to fight for the honour of their King and country, there’s no honour in what was done to them, I was a prisoner of the Spanish and it certainly wasn’t a picnic in the countryside but none of us came back like this. Aramis questioning God? And d’Artagnan, I don’t even know where to start…”

“You are absolutely right, brother, and therefore you and I need to be strong, to help them heal…and forget.”

“There will be no _forgetting_ , Athos, trust me,” Porthos replies sadly. “I need a few minutes, you get some food, see what’s happening, and then we’ll switch places.”

Athos understands Porthos’ need to be alone for a few moments and he agrees to give the big Musketeer some time to himself. Exiting of the makeshift infirmary Athos nearly stumbles over Lacroix, who’s sitting on a boulder outside of the tent, his expression tense and his eyes suspiciously damp.

“Come lad, you and I need to have a chat,” Athos says firmly and the young man meets his gaze, startled, possibly even frightened, but Athos takes him gently by the elbow and steers him to the far corner of the courtyard where they can speak in private.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Lacroix states flatly, sitting on the low stone wall at the edge of the courtyard and Athos does the same. “And I assure you despite what you may think I would never, _ever_ act on my feelings, it would be dishonourable and despicable of me to attempt to break the sacred vows of marriage…even if there was the slightest chance that my feelings were reciprocated,” he tells Athos vehemently. “But surely you can understand? Haven’t you ever felt like this about someone, Captain? Someone who gave you a reason to wake up in the morning? A person whose presence was so beautiful and yet so very heartbreaking at the same time? Maybe someone you could never have no matter what the circumstances?” the young man implores hoarsely.

His words are like a punch to gut because Athos has been both blessed and cursed to feel that way about a very certain someone, and it’s at that moment that he fully comprehends how the lad has been suffering.

“Yes…yes I have, as has every man in this regiment at some point or another in their lives. Aside from maybe Porthos,” he muses wryly, remembering that Porthos had given up his chance of having a meaningful relationship more than once for his place among the Musketeers. 

Lacroix looks confused and Athos smiles. “You would think Aramis was the heartbreaker but it’s actually Porthos,” he confides. “But that is neither here nor there. The point is that every single one of us has at some moment in our lives felt attracted to someone who was either taken, or unsuitable or simply not interested. And if we let that _one_ person or that _one_ moment in time ruin our lives we’d all be throwing ourselves off the cliffs. Or maybe drinking ourselves to death,” he adds knowingly, “without seeing that there is someone suitable and interested just waiting to make our acquaintance, if we can just get past that feeling of overwhelming hopelessness and simply move on.”

At that moment, Athos truly wonders who he is trying to convince; himself or Lacroix and he realises that he’s probably trying to convince the both of them; it’s time to forget what could have been…and what will never be, and simply move forward to maybe find, if not love, companionship and contentment.

“No, Captain, someone like me will never find that kind of happiness,” he says sadly and although it pains him to see the lad so desolate Athos knows deep down that it may be true. The world they live in will never be kind or forgiving to men like Lacroix.

“I’m so sorry, lad, if it’s any consolation, we’re probably in the same boat but for different reasons. There are other things though to make live worth living you know; friendship, brotherhood and being a part of something as extraordinary as the Musketeers. And beyond that there are so many beautiful things to experience like travel and teaching yourself new things, there are books and music and theatre, you’re an educated young man, I’m sure you know that there are countless wonderful things in this world that can fill that void in your heart, if you simply seek them out.”

“Everything you say is logical…and of course I swear on my honour as a Musketeer and as a gentleman that I will never, ever do anything untoward or unseemly, or in any way hurt…” he stops and takes a deep breath “I will never disrespect such a truly courageous human being by expressing my…my thoughts or…”

“Lad, stop berating yourself! You are an _equally_ courageous and loyal soldier, I cannot tell you how many times you’ve made me, as well as the entire regiment proud!” Athos tells him sternly. “You know, it certainly doesn’t help that he practically throws himself into the most dangerous situations imaginable. It’s very possible that your…admiration may be slightly enhanced by his…antics?”

Lacroix lets out a soft laugh. “It’s possible, even some of the men who aren’t particularly partial to him are in awe of his bravery, although he certainly manages to get himself battered more than the average soldier.”

Athos smiles wryly. “Step one; knock him off that proverbial pedestal and acknowledge that he’s _not_ perfect. He’s human and flawed and can be a downright pain in the arse when he wants to be.”

“But you still love him don’t you? Despite all of that you still love him dearly, you all do.”

Athos feels his heart clench. “Porthos was drawn to him first; it was odd actually but then it became obvious that he saw him as a fellow orphan, someone like himself with no one else left in the world and he immediately became protective of him. And Aramis, well Aramis has a big heart and a lot of love to share,” Athos explains carefully. The relationships that exist between the four of them are complex and no one on the outside could ever truly understand.

“And yourself Captain?”

“I have come to care very deeply for all the men under my command, especially since coming to the front. But the fact that I’d had the chance to foster him before he’d won his commission did create a different bond, a special one that I won’t deny, but that doesn’t mean I would ever put him before any of the rest of my men,” Athos says firmly, meaning it.

“Of course, everyone knows that, you wouldn’t have let him fight that duel if that was the case, you would have commanded us all to fight…and every single one of us was ready to do so, mind you. What you did took courage Captain, to allow him stand alone for all of us, every single man in the regiment respects you, and him of course, for that.”

“It should have been me to begin with, not him or any of you,” Athos mutters, “and it’s come back to haunt him now, hasn’t it…and the rest of us,” Athos says dully, reminding the both of them that d’Artagnan has once again paid very dearly for simply doing his duty; this mission now with Aramis, as well as following the orders that Athos himself had given the morning of the raid on the Spanish camp. Would Athos have done anything different in either case if he’d had the chance to go back? Probably not; d’Artagnan is a Musketeer, despite his youth and his close friendship with the so-called Inseparables, he is a soldier by choice and he’d voluntarily sworn his allegiance too King and country. “Listen, you need to get some rest, and something to eat, we have to ride soon.”

Lacroix looks shocked. “Surely neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan is in any state to be moved tonight?”

Athos rises and stretches his aching limbs. “There’s no choice, we can’t hold off a Spanish attack, we are too few and poorly equipped. I’m guessing the only reason we’ve had a reprieve thus far is due to the fact that the Lieutenant who was shot was the Spanish General’s nephew. But they will come looking for us so we’ll need to move.”

They walk back to the main camp side by side in silence and when they reach the infirmary tent the young man stops and turns to Athos.

“Thank you, Sir, your friendship and your guidance will surely be the reason that I will someday find the strength to move forward,” Lacroix tells Athos meaningfully.

“I’m glad to hear that, and the feeling is mutual you know, I depend on your support and I value your loyalty. I’m grateful to have you by my side, never doubt that, Lacroix, never.”

The young man gives him a smile that Athos could only categorise as sad and he watches him go, making his way towards the fire where a pot is boiling and the men have gathered to eat and unwind, and the Captain truly hopes that their talk has made a difference. 

Thinking back to that fateful day at the deserted crossroads, a single white glove on the ground the only sign that she’d ever been there, Athos wonders if it isn’t time to truly start believing for himself all the things he’s just tried to convey to Lacroix. It certainly seems to be the right moment to move forward, with so much to worry about and so many lives in his hands Athos thinks if he lets go of the past he might just manage to be a better soldier and a better Captain…and maybe, just maybe, he’ll manage to get what’s left of his regiment back to Paris in one piece.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5000 words of Athos angsting over a desolate Aramis and an injured d'Artngnan and contemplating his own complex past and his man-pain because I love Athos' 'voice'. Also, in the conversation between Lacroix and Athos I have deliberately avoided either of them referring to d'Artagnan by name; it seemed to me that Lacroix can barely face his feelings, let alone utter his name, that may seem strange but it's how I felt when I was writing it:)
> 
> If you're reading "Every since the world began" I've not abandoned it of course, I'm simply working on finishing this story and I do not want to shortchange these last chapters; this section is the 'calm before the storm' so to speak because Aramis and d'Artagnan need to face what's happened _and_ each other and if it doesn't make your heart hurt I won't be satisfied:)
> 
> As for Ever Since, I actually did sneak in 4000 words when 'Stars' wasn't looking a few days ago so it will be updated soon:)
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support. If you're reading this then you've read the chapter and I'd appreciate you taking the time to comment or critique, it's a fanfiction writer's only form of payment and it's worth more than cash, trust me!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Arduna for the beta, all mistakes are mine of course!

The Musketeers break camp before sundown, and to a man they are uneasy as they are fully aware of the danger they face by travelling at night. But the longer they remain at the dilapidated mill the more chance they will be found and attacked by the Spanish.

And the longer they are away from camp the greater their fear that d’Artagnan, and to a lesser degree Aramis and Henri, may deteriorate further.

Aramis allows Porthos to help him dress and eat a few bites of the stew prepared by the scouts. He then insists on checking d’Artagnan’s back himself before Jacques bandages the lad’s wounds for the ride back. Leaning on Porthos, he watches like a hawk as the younger Musketeer explains to him exactly what he’d used to treat the slashes thus far and Aramis is both impressed and grateful. He agrees that the deepest of the lacerations cannot be stitched closed and he cringes inwardly as he imagines not only the scar it will leave but also the pain it will cause his young brother as it heals.

They ride as they did from the Abbey; Aramis with Lacroix and d’Artagnan with Porthos, who simply refuses to allow anyone else, not even Athos, to carry the boy back to camp. Aramis knows that Porthos needs to do this, as the lad’s self-appointed protector in Porthos’ mind it’s the only thing he can do at the moment to keep d’Artagnan safe, something he’s been doing, or at least trying to do, since the day they’d met. From the moment that Porthos had stepped in front of d’Artagnan when he’d faced off with Marsac on a filthy Parisian back street, Aramis had known that his friend and brother would always do whatever was in his power to keep the lad out of mischief and of course, away from harm.

For Aramis, who is exhausted, cold and still experiencing discomfort from his wound, the ride back is mostly a painful blur. They’d been forced to stop twice to rest the horses, as well as the tired riders, but also for Jacques to have a look at his three patients. Henri is still coughing but vastly improved and Aramis waves the younger man off when he requests to have a look at his shoulder. D’Artagnan is mostly unconscious but notably cooler, despite the fact that he still seems to be plagued by what Aramis calls fever-dreams. He seems not to recognise anyone, not even Aramis who he’s called out for repeatedly. On their second stop Aramis had held him through his distressed muttering while Porthos stretched his aching limbs, but even though d’Artagnan’s eyes were open and he was looking directly at Aramis’ concerned face he still appeared unaware of his presence. At some point Aramis had managed to pull his chain out from under his clothes and he’d laid his cross and the lad’s wedding ring in his overly-warm hand, something that seemed to work wonders as he’d settled considerably after Aramis had closed d’Artagnan’s fist around the dulled gold band and crucifix while whispering soothing nonsense in his ear.

They arrive back at camp late into the night where they receive a bittersweet reception; joy, relief and of course concern for the three Musketeers who are clearly unwell. Porthos carries d’Artagnan to the infirmary and lays him gently on a cot, face down, and then he strips off his cloak and leathers and tosses them aside before falling wordlessly onto a cot himself. Athos, Aramis notes, is having a hard time keeping their worried comrades-in-arms out of the infirmary tent while Jacques, aided now by the more experienced George, begins to treat the patients, starting with Henri. The young Musketeer is settled on the far side of the tent and away from Aramis and d’Artagnan, George warning the others of the dire consequences should the injured Musketeers fall ill with the ague.

When they’re done with the sleepy Henri, Aramis tiredly allows George to examine his wound and change his bandage only so that the young medic would move on and focus on the motionless d’Artagnan. 

It takes over an hour to redress the wounds with clean bandages; George insists on Aramis’ input even though Jacques assures the trainee medic that d’Artagnan’s injuries appear less inflamed and Aramis, lying on a cot on the other side of d’Artagnan, agrees that they shouldn’t be cleaned or treated with any further remedies until the next day if Jacques’ poultices and powders are working. His swollen shoulder is left alone for the time being, everyone agreeing that it would be cruel to try to fix it at that moment. It takes three men to get d’Artagnan to drink a cup of warm water with the fever and the pain concoction, since he is still, for the most part, unresponsive. Athos repeats his concerns regarding the pain draught but Jacques again reassures him of its relative mildness. Regardless, the Captain warns all of them all firmly that it is the last time he will allow them to dose d’Artagnan until he wakes fully. 

When the lad is settled Athos reluctantly takes his leave in search of Hubert, who’s been in command in Athos’ absence, and George and Jacques retire, leaving Aramis and Porthos to keep an eye on the two patients.

“I’m so tired I can’t sleep,” Porthos says with a soft groan and Aramis knows the feeling; every inch of his body hurts for the obvious reasons and the frantic ride back to camp has done him no favours. 

“And I’m filthy, every single inch of my body is covered in dirt, I’m going to have George fill the tub for me tomorrow, nothing else will suffice,” he complains.

Aramis chuckles. “It’s a hip bath, intended to lower the temperature of fevered patients, how will you fit in it?”

Porthos grunts. “I’ll make myself fit, anything to just sit in some clean water for a few minutes, surely you agree?”

Aramis remembers his last bath under the watchful eye of Raoul and his stomach turns. “Yes,” he croaks, and hopes Porthos doesn't continue the conversion.

“Aramis?”

“Hmn?”

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

Aramis flinches at Porthos’ uncertainty. “Of course, he’s strong and Jacques is incredibly knowledgeable, I’m going to suggest to Athos that he be trained as a medic.”

Porthos grunts. “It look like he’s been to hell and back, how can you be so sure he’ll make it?”

Aramis sighs. “Exactly because he’s been to hell and has managed to come back to us, Porthos. Besides, he’s had worse and survived, he’ll do so again.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Porthos says and rolls onto his back with a loud groan.

“God is not listening Porthos, save your breath. There’s no way that a loving God would allow d’Artagnan to suffer such incredible horrors,” Aramis says dully. “I prayed and I prayed but things just got worse for him. And then he began to dream of what sounded like actual hell at which point I begged _‘God if you’re going to take him, please let him go peacefully’_ but there was no reprieve, no relief from the nightmares and the visions, and he suffered, both physically and mentally in a way that I hope I never have the misfortune to see another man suffer as long as I live.”

Porthos immediately sits up. “Aramis! He survived and you both held on long enough for us to find you, if you start questioning your faith what about the rest of us heathens? Maybe God had some reason for all of that, you’re the one who tells us some things are simply God’s will.”

Aramis struggles to his feet and begins to pace. “There’s not a good enough reason in the universe for God to allow a man…no a _boy_ to suffer like that!” Aramis snarls. “I’ve spent a lifetime accepting that some shockingly dreadful events are God’s will because it’s easy to do so; it allows a person to accept a flood killing hundreds or a plague taking thousands is for some higher purpose that us mere mortals can’t understand, but it’s all smoke and mirrors, brother, and a way for the church to keep us all neatly in line, to simply accept what is taught and question nothing!”

“I never thought I’d see the day that I’d hear blasphemy come from your mouth, my friend,” Porthos says gently. “You need time, you’ve both had a horrific experience…”

“Yes, it was and I was powerless to help him because he manipulated the situation so that it was impossible for me to be by his side,” Aramis mutters almost to himself. “When he wakes he’s going to get an earful, that’s for certain!”

“So you’re not only angry with God, you’re angry at yourself as well, because that sounds more like guilt than anything else…wholly misplaced guilt, by the way,” Porthos insists.

Aramis stills and feels a sharp stab of almost physical pain in his gut. “Of course I’m angry with myself! And I’m angry with him for sacrificing himself without considering the consequences to the rest of us!” Aramis hisses, pointing at the sleeping d’Artagnan. “You want the rest of the list? I’m angry with Miguel for getting himself killed and Raoul for not helping us sooner and yes, with God for abandoning us when d’Artagnan needed Him most.”

Porthos nods. “Interesting list, the only person missing is the one man you truly should be angry with; that bastard General Navarro, the man who caused all of this,” he tells Aramis pointedly.

Aramis shakes his head. “No, not him, I am not angry with him; I despise him, with ever fibre of my being and when I find him…oh yes, brother, I cannot let this go…” he adds when Porthos’ eyebrows raise in surprise “when I find him I swear to you that I will disembowel him, slowly and painfully and then string him up from a tree, to be eaten alive by the crows.”

Porthos nods. “Sounds perfectly acceptable to me. At the moment though I suggest you focus all your energy on getting well and helping the boy survive, and when the time comes I will personally hold the old goat while you carve him up, agreed?”

Aramis feels like all the wind has gone from his sails and he lets out a tired sigh, and he stumbles back to his cot where Porthos comes and helps him to lie down. When the big man pulls two blankets over his aching body Aramis reaches out and grabs his wrist.

“Thank you, Porthos, he wouldn’t have lived another hour if you hadn’t found us when you did.”

“Him or you; you were frozen, a few more hours and you would have lost your hands and feet, maybe your life,” Porthos says grimly. “And don’t you ever thank me for having your back you fool, it’s insulting!”

Aramis nods and loosens his grip, and he rolls carefully onto his back. “You asked me before if d’Artagnan will survive and I said yes. But in all honesty I can’t promise you that, you’ve seen his back, and even if he does make it through this I don’t know if he will regain full use of his left arm,” Aramis admits worriedly. “He’ll need to be watched closely and we’ll need to feed him and get him too drink and urinate, everything we struggled with months ago, all over again. If he cooperates, it will be easier, let’s hope he wakes in a better frame of mind than he did after being poisoned, that is an experience I certainly do not want to repeat.”

“Don’t worry about that, he was very ashamed of his attitude then, and the experience matured him, you saw how hard he fought to regain his strength once he realised how ridiculous he’d behaved.” 

Aramis just nods, he's anxious and worried but simply too tired to continue their conversation.

Aramis watches silently as Porthos checks on d’Artagnan one last time and then he too lies down to sleep. Aramis may no longer feel that he can depend on God but he knows he can always depend on Porthos. 

With that thought, he closes his eyes and allows himself to drift off into a desperately needed sleep.

 

******************************************

 

“Aramis?”

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan cries, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to focus, anxious and confused.

A hand on his shoulder makes him stiffen and he steels himself for the unknown. There isn’t much he can do to defend himself but he’ll not submit to more unspeakable cruelty without a fight.

“Not Aramis,” an achingly familiar voice says and then he sees him; Porthos. ‘Do you recognize me, lad?” the big man asks tentatively from where he’s down on one knee beside d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan scrunches up his face in confusion. “Of course I do brother,” he whispers, his throat painfully dry and scratchy. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Porthos lets out a shaky laugh. “Because you haven’t known any of us for days, Athos was beginning to worry about your mind, he wouldn’t let us dose you with pain draughts anymore.”

D’Artagnan has no idea what Porthos is referring to; his memory is hazy but he remembers being taken on the road with Aramis by the Spanish, being held prisoner and flogged at some point, but his body tells him he will eventually have a great deal of information to process, whether through his own recollection or from his brothers’, and he’s sure that from the degree of pain he feels there is a truly spectacular story to go along with it.

“How did I get here?” he questions groggily, tempted to go back to sleep but he’s thirsty and he needs to pee.

“I carried you most of the way,” Porthos informs him. “You may look skinny but you are one heavy Gascon, my back can attest to that.”

D’Artagnan gasps. “You carried me on foot?”

“Some of the time, but mostly on my horse, not an easy feat while you were unconscious.”

“Thank you, brother…and I apologise for….,” d’Artagnan begins earnestly but he trails off when he sees that Porthos looks livid.

“Aramis and now you, I can’t believe you would dare thank me for coming to get you, or for carrying you…or anything else for that matter!”

D’Artagnan winces at his tone. “I’m sorry, my friend, I certainly didn’t mean to offend you…I’m just glad to be back.”

Porthos lets out a long and tired sigh and he pulls a short barrel close to d’Artagnan’s cot so he can sit beside him. “We were worried, lad, you were both so poorly when we found you.”

D’Artagnan goes still. “Aramis?” he asks, fearful.

“Fine, he’s with Athos, giving him a full report of the events of your captivity. He only left your side this morning when your fever broke.”

D’Artagnan feels muddled and has lost all sense of the passing of time. He has no idea when they’d been taken, how many days they’d been held or how long he’s been back in the Musketeers camp but at the moment, all he cares about is that his brothers are safe and sound and that he seems relatively in one piece despite the pain that is slowly making itself known from head to toe.

“Porthos, my shoulder, it feels….wrong,” d’Artagnan says wiggling around, every movement bringing a new injury to his attention.

Porthos purses his lips and looks extremely displeased. “We haven’t been able to set it yet. Perhaps today, Aramis says the swelling has gone down enough to be able to manipulate it back into it place.”

Dread settles in his belly as he considers Porthos’ assessment; it’s not just the thought of the unspeakable pain that will be involved but also that the limb might be permanently injured.

Porthos, who knows him better than anyone senses his concern and he frowns. “Hey, none of that, it’s happened to me more times than I can count, once to my sword arm as well, and it just healed fine.”

D’Artagnan simply nods; he knows Porthos is right but the thought of another long period of convalescence and rehabilitation makes him feel thoroughly disheartened. 

“You, um, you had nightmares, bad ones, do you remember anything?”

D’Artagnan startles; everything is a blur but Porthos’ question jars his memory and there are flashes of images, horrible, frightening images and he shuts his eyes against them.

“Jacques says it’s a side effect of the sleeping draught that Mi…that they were giving you,” Porthos explains quietly and the stumble is not lost of the sharp Gascon.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Please tell me it wasn’t by the hand of one our men,” d’Artagnan says dully, feeling a sharp stab of real grief along with a another rush of vivid memories; Miguel had saved him and d’Artagnan considered him a friend, even in that short period of time a bond had been formed, one that d’Artagnan had thought would outlast this blasted war between their countries. The man had shown him kindness he would have never expected from anyone outside of his brotherhood or his regiment and his loss will be felt for a long time to come.

“No, an accident, one of his own and it was quick, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better,” Porthos assures him soothingly. “Do you think you can eat something? Aramis says it’s been days since you’ve eaten, if you were skinny before you’re absolutely emaciated now. You’re not going to be difficult are you?”

“No, I’m hungry,” d’Artagnan admits. “And thirsty and I need to take an truly epic piss, do you have a bucket large enough?” he jokes weakly and that brings a grin to the big man’s face, the first one he’s seen on anyone’s face in a very long time.

“I’ll get the hip bath if you need it,” Porthos teases and he gets to his feet. “Getting you up is going to be painful, lad, can you handle it or do you need Aramis’ special concoction?”

“No, but I may need more help than you alone can give me, brother,” he admits honestly. “I’m sore and stiff everywhere.” Hiding his pain is pointless, it’s become more and more palpable with each passing moment and there is no way he will be able to get off the cot without additional assistance.

“Right, I’ll go get Aramis,” Porthos says but Aramis and Athos are already there, hurrying over to him with wide grins on their clearly tired faces. Aramis has his left arm in a sling but he looks generally well, as does Athos. An unexpected prick of tears burns his eyes but d’Artagnan doesn’t try and blink them away, he lets them fall; he feels an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief and there is no reason to hide that from his brothers.

Aramis drops to one knee beside him and immediately checks him for fever. When he’s satisfied that d’Artagnan is cool to the touch he sits on the cot across from him.

“Brother, you scared the life out of me,” Aramis says shakily. 

“Not only him,” Athos adds quietly and d’Artagnan meets the gaze of his mentor and his Captain.

“It feels like weeks since I’ve seen you, Captain,” d’Artagnan says, more tears falling. “How long has it actually been?”

He sees that Athos is struggling to keep his composure and it makes his heart ache; he’s brought so much pain to these men he calls brothers that it shames him. This time, he vows, he will do everything in his power to get back on his feet as soon as possible.

“I’ve lost track of the days, but it’s been three since we’ve returned to camp,” Athos explains. “You’ve been very ill during that time, we were all…concerned,” he adds stiffly in typical Athos fashion but d’Artagnan knows that his friend has been a lot more than merely concerned. 

Aramis rises and kneels beside him and he takes d’Artagnan’s left hand carefully in his and he slides something wonderfully familiar on his ring finger. “You asked me to keep it safe and I did.”

“I…remember that, and then something about a dragon?” d’Artagnan muses, frowning and he tries to focus on the memory.

“Yes, it was a recurring nightmare you had, Jacques later explained that the visions and the nightmares were a result of a specific plant that Raoul used in his pain remedies,” the older man lies smoothly.

“Aramis, I know about Miguel, I think I actually expected it. He wasn’t suicidal, far from it, but he wasn’t afraid of death either, he welcomed the thought, he was convinced he would be reunited with in family in heaven,” d’Artagnan says sadly. If Aramis looks sceptical d’Artagnan chalks it up to his sorrow; Miguel was a brave and kind soul who will never be forgotten and it’s natural for Aramis to feel pained over the other man’s death.

“I’m not sure if Porthos has told you but you and Aramis were betrayed by the scout, Alphonse. It seems as if he became greedy after what he thought was an accidental meeting on the road with a Spanish soldier who was close to the General and had been spying on our scouts. The soldier approached him under false pretences and then made him a generous offer. He’d been in the employ of Navarro for about a month,” Athos explains. “He’s been promised leniency in exchange for information but a life in the Chatelet, in my opinion, is a fate worse than death,” the Captain adds with a satisfied expression on his tired face.

“I’m sure it will be,” Porthos grunts. “I spent one night in that hell hole it was torture, a lifetime is fitting punishment for the bastard,” the big Musketeer says with vehemence.

There is a hum of agreement from the others and d’Artagnan suddenly feels very sleepy again. But his bladder is persistent and he reminds Porthos that he needs to use the bucket. It takes the three of them a good five minutes to get d’Artagnan into a sitting position because Aramis insists he mustn’t be jostled more than necessary or his wounds will open. D’Artagnan couldn’t agree more; the last thing he wants is to be moved more than needed since every movement awakens a new pain somewhere he hadn’t even know he was injured. When he’s finally sitting up and has relieved himself Aramis asks if he can remain like that for a few more minutes so that he can eat something.

“I could eat my horse I’m so hungry,” he informs his brothers who all appear thrilled at his declaration. Porthos hurries to the mess to get some soup and bread and Aramis goes to boil some water to tend to his wounds once he’s eaten. That leaves him alone with Athos, who takes Porthos’ spot on the barrel, his expression pensive and his body tense.

“What is it brother?” d’Artagnan asks quietly, using his right hand to pull the blanket on his shoulder closer around him. Athos gets to his feet at once and arranges it himself so it covers d’Artagnan completely before he settles back onto the barrel.

“I um, I am considering sending you back to Paris for a while, to recover properly, this is the second time in a few months that you’ve been seriously injured and I was thinking that…”

“NO!” d’Artagnan declares angrily. “You can’t be serious, surely? I’ll go mad…and you’ve never sent anyone else back before, why me?” he asks, furious.

“No one else has been as poorly as you have been, and besides I’d promised you leave to see your wife over Christmas, consider it your due,” Athos explains to him calmly.

“Or consider it coddling! Every man in this regiment is desperate for a few days in Paris; when everyone is granted leave then I will accept mine as well,” d’Artagnan says firmly. 

Athos nods and gives him a crooked smile. “It was worth a try.”

“I appreciate your concern, Athos, but I am a Musketeer, despite my age and despite our friendship or even that fact that I’m married to someone you all care for, if I am afforded special treatment my position in the regiment will instantly be weakened.”

“You are absolutely right,” Athos agrees firmly, his expression suddenly going serious. “And in the future I expect you to behave in a manner that reflects that position; trying to get yourself killed at every opportunity is not in line with the Musketeer code.”

D’Artagnan is about to protest but he bites his tongue; he has no intention of giving Athos any more grief. “Yes, Captain,” he says respectfully. 

Athos raises one brow and tilts his head to once side, his expression incredulous. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, I swear it!” d’Artagnan answers earnestly.

Athos nods and his face relaxes. “Good, I’d hate to have to toss you in the brig while injured.”

D’Artagnan knows he doesn’t mean it but he keeps his demeanour courteous; Athos is, after all, their Captain and the man who has kept them safe and sane all these horrible months at the front. Instead he offers an olive branch.

“Thank you for your offer of leave, Athos. In truth I miss Constance more than I could have ever imagined possible but my place is here, with you and Porthos and Aramis and the rest of the regiment. And I promise to do my utmost to make you proud; you fostered and mentored me when I was trying to win my commission and for that alone I owe you my respect and my loyalty. But my friendship is offered freely and with the deepest care for the brotherhood we’ve all formed between us,” he says sincerely, suddenly feeling overly emotional. Damn injuries, he curses inwardly, have once again left him feeling less that steady.

“Are you finished?”

D’Artagnan sighs. “Yes…yes I think so.”

Athos gives him a rare full grin. “Good. Now I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of Aramis and Porthos because I have a regiment to run,” the Captain says sternly. “But if you want to talk about anything that…happened while you were held prisoner, my ‘tent flap’ is always open, brother,” he adds meaningfully, dropping all pretence of superior officer and assuring d’Artagnan that he’s always there to listen. D’Artagnan is grateful but at the moment he still has so much to process.

“Thank you Athos,” d’Artagnan replies simply. The moment it broken by the appearance of Porthos, who is carrying a wooden tray laden with a bowl, a pitcher, a cup and a plate of bread, followed by Aramis who is carrying supplies of his own. Athos slips away and d’Artagnan, exhausted and in an increasing amount of pain, dutifully allows Porthos to feed him – mostly because he only has one good hand and that one is trembling – and after, he tries to stay as still as possible while Aramis has a look at his wounds. 

When it’s time for his shoulder to be set Aramis gives him a hefty dose of his special brew and waits until d’Artagnan assures them he's feeling the effects before he and Porthos manage to manipulate it back into place. It’s an experience d’Artagnan would rather forget but he’s proud that he'd retained his dignity during the process and barely let out a sound even though he'd wanted to howl from the pain.

Heavily sedated he nods off to the comforting sound of his brothers moving around the infirmary, cleaning up and talking softly between themselves. The familiar sounds are like a lullaby to a soldier at the front, where every day can be your last and you never know where you may wake up and in whose clutches you may find yourself. To d’Artagnan, it’s the sweetest symphony and a soothing ending to what has been an eventful day for him. He knows that he will have a lot of painful memories to sort through and his body will not heal easily, but for the moment they are together and safe and he slides into sleep feeling hopeful for the first time in a very long while.

To be continued....

Coming soon, the conclusion. Aramis is still very angry, Athos questions his role as Captain and their two youngest (and most impetuous) Porthos and d'Artagnan, are surprisingly, the voices of reason:)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Arduna who made this a much better story, you are a gem my friend and I truly appreciate your help and your friendship xx
> 
>  
> 
> There is a reference to Aramis' dream/nightmare in chapter 7, at the very end of this chapter, I thought I'd jar your memories a bit since my posting has been erratic and I know I wouldn't remember myself, let alone expect anyone else to remember, so you might want to peek at that first?

Athos had never wanted nor aspired to be anything more than an ordinary soldier in the King’s Musketeers. He’d purposely chosen that role simply because he’d wanted to lose himself amongst the rank and file, to never again have responsibilities beyond those given to him on the battlefield, to take orders instead of give them. He’d wanted nothing more than to defend King and country with a mindless loyalty that left no room for anything else to occupy his tortured soul.

That all came to an end on one very fateful day in his life; Anne had left France for good and war declared on Spain, d’Artagnan, the literal baby of the regiment, married the love of his life while Treville had thrust an unwanted Captaincy in his lap without giving him a chance to say no.

If anything though, he was a soldier through and through, and he had been for nearly eight years at that time, and he’d been fully aware that soldiers respect authority and follow orders regardless of fear or personal convictions and they are always prepared to die for their King if he requested it. He’d accepted the mantle of the Captaincy for those reasons as well as a few of his own…which, he admits to himself, were mostly selfish. As Captain of the regiment he could always have Porthos and d’Artagnan…and later on Aramis, close at his side, something that the wily Athos thought would be the best way to keep his brothers safe.

Of course it hadn’t worked out like that. During their time at the front he’d actually ended up putting those he held most dear in the greatest danger, simply because he trusted them above all others, and he usually ended up choosing them for the most dangerous missions. Most of those missions had gone off without a hitch but a few had ended in near disaster, like this latest mission he’d assigned to Aramis and d’Artagnan, which could have ended a lot worse if not for the help of the kindhearted Spaniard who’d saved their lives while paying with his own.

Along the way though Athos had realised something profound; he worried equally about every man under his command, each and every Musketeer was a brother to him; this had always been the fact but suddenly he’d found himself feeling a fondness for Henri that was similar to what he felt for d’Artagnan and Hubert and his years of experience had become as reliable as Porthos on the battlefield. Lacroix was certainly his Aramis, with his angst and his romantic drama but like Aramis the lad was a rock he could lean on when he was feeling weary or simply needed a friend. All his men were loyal soldiers and Athos had found something in each one of them that endeared themselves to their Captain individually.

The weight of keeping these men he’s come to care for alive and the difficult tactical decisions he’s often been forced to make have served to drive home once and for all the fact that he will never be a simple soldier again, following orders mechanically and fighting to keep himself and the man next to him alive; he is Captain of the regiment and he’s taken on this role as he has every other in his life, with dedication and zeal and a deep hope that he will have the strength to do what’s best.

Athos puts his seal on the letter he’d just finished writing Treville when his mind had gone off on a tangent and he takes another sheet of parchment to reply to Constance, whose steady correspondence filled with palace and garrison gossip is something he sheepishly admits that he looks forward to. Madame d’Artagnan takes the time to write to each of the so called _Inseparables_ individually, something that all of them appreciate deeply. There are moments that he wishes she was there with them; she is feisty and outspoken but also practical and levelheaded, and the Captain often misses her soothing, no-nonsense presence. D’Artagnan is a lucky boy he thinks fondly, she is truly a remarkable woman, and he wishes that the lad would remember just how lucky he is every time he did something epicly stupid and put himself in harm’s way.

His thoughts are sidetracked again as he remembers it’s not only d’Artagnan he needs to worry about at the moment; earlier in the day Porthos had voiced his concerns about Aramis’ state of mind as well as and his vehement declaration of his intention to seek out Navarro to exact retribution. Athos rubs his temples and sighs; the fool General had lost his nephew over a vendetta, couldn’t Aramis see how dangerous harbouring feelings of revenge can be? 

And he still has Lacroix to keep an eye on, Henri is not yet fully recovered, Aramis isn’t combat-ready and Lord knows when d’Artagnan will be. He’s also losing Jacques to the infirmary and must get the eager Claude fit for battle again; he’d hated being a medic, so at least that worked out for the best. They’re also low on supplies again and someone had warned him earlier that more snow is coming; who exactly, he can’t remember, he simply has too much on his mind to recall.

The flap of his tent opens and he knows it can only be Porthos or Aramis, no one else would dare come in unannounced, and he’s grateful to see that Porthos has brought him what appears to be a dented tin pot of steaming tea and bread topped with some of Constance’s precious preserves that they’ve been hoarding for a special occasion ….or a dire one.

“Celebration or bad news?” Athos queries, indicating the jam.

“Celebration for sure, the lad pissed, ate and fell asleep without giving us the tiniest bit of trouble. That’s progress.”

“Indeed,” Athos says wryly and he takes small bites of the bread, savouring the apricot preserves that Madame d’Artagnan had so thoughtfully sent for them.

“More snow on the way,” the big man informs him with a tired sigh and he sits on Athos’ cot.

“Yes, someone informed me, I can’t remember who though.”

“Pierre, he says he knows by the pain in his knees, he’s usually right mind you.”

“So should we let out the collective breath we’ve all been holding or maybe wait for the other shoe to drop?” Athos muses and Porthos knows exactly what he’s asking.

“I’ve got everyone locked and ready just in case but I don’t think Navarro will be stupid enough to attack, not with the weather turning. I’d say we’re safe for the time being. What do the dispatches from the main camp say?”

“We're waiting for the signal to break camp, apparently we’re moving closer to Arras, but like you said, not with the weather turning, even Dubois isn’t that foolish,” Athos murmurs and then impulsively he adds, “You know, I never wanted this job, Porthos, I was wondering if either you or maybe Aramis would like it instead?” he asks half-heartedly, wondering what would happen if one of them said yes; could he give it up or would he be too paranoid to hand over the reins?

Porthos doesn’t look surprised. “No, brother, Aramis and I are soldiers, pistols, muskets, swords, that’s where we excel. You are a leader, a natural born one at that, whether you like it or not. Now I know you’re weary and we’ve been through a lot but the only way this regiment has even the smallest chance of surviving this war is with you at the helm,” Porthos tells him solemnly. 

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Athos says with a deep sigh. “Do you think we truly have a chance of ever seeing Paris again my dear friend?”

Porthos grins, a wide, tooth baring smile that makes Athos immediately feel heartened. “Of course we do! And I for one am terrified of the ‘wrath of Constance’ if we don’t, so I plan to do my utmost to get us all home in one piece, that woman can be mighty scary when she’s angry you know.”

Athos can’t help it, he chuckles as he imagines the lovely and feisty Constance dishing out slaps and tongue lashings as if they were naughty school boys and not Musketeers. Athos lifts his tea high and makes a toast. “To Constance then, may our fear of her wrath guide us home.”

Porthos pulls out a flask from inside of his leather doublet, unscrews the top and offers his own toast.

“To Constance, a beautiful woman with a mean right hook. Did you know that some of the lads tell tales of her bravery ‘round the fire? She’d be chuffed if she knew.”

There’s a light patter against the tent and Athos knows that sound means the weather has turned, and that Pierre’s knees are not to be doubted again. Porthos puts away his flask and falls back onto Athos’ bed with a tired sigh and Athos considers how to begin his letter.

He settles on this;

_Dearest Constance, Thank you for your letter and your gifts, both are much appreciated. We are all well and praying that both you and our Beloved Majesty are also in good health and spirits. It’s recently come to my attention that your bravery and your 'mean right hook' has become the stuff of legends around the camp, I hope this pleases you as it’s with the utmost respect that the lads sing your praises…_

“Hey, what’re you grinning about Captain?” Porthos queries from the cot. 

Athos chuckles softly. “I’m writing to Constance,” he replies.

“Well don’t let the boy see you smiling like that when you’re thinking of his wife,” Porthos warns jokingly.

“Constance is the sister none of us ever had, my friend, surely you love her just as dearly as I do.”

“Of course, she’s one of us, our family, just like the lad. Speaking of, when he’s better he needs to have his skinny arse beaten for his recklessness. He saved Aramis from being mistreated at the expense of his own safety. Who does that when they have a girl like Constance waiting back in Paris?”

Athos looks at his friend and gives him a sad smile. ‘We do, brother, we do, all of us, it’s how we’re built, he can’t change anymore than you can. But you’re right, he does need a talking to.”

“He needs a spanking,” Porthos growls and he pulls Athos’ blanket over himself with a tired sigh. “Promise me you’ll let me give him one if he doesn’t listen.”

Athos can help it, he chuckles again at the thought of Porthos putting d’Artagnan over his knee.  
“You have my word.” He picks up his pen again and dips it into the inkwell and he begins to write.

_“No need to worry about your husband, my dear, Porthos keeps him in line with the threat of a spanking, if you’ve seen the size of Porthos’ hand you know it’s an effective deterrent.”_

He reads that line again and considers balling up the parchment and starting again. 

But then he realises that Constance is one of them and she will appreciate the humour and see the deeper meaning behind it. He dips his pen again and continues, avoiding of course all mention of the disastrous mission since both their brothers are now returned safe and sound. 

When he’s done he pours sand over the ink and heats a piece wax over the candle beside him. As he’s sealing it he sends up a small prayer to a power he simply can’t confirm exists that all his letters will be as light-hearted as this one, the thought of anything else is simply unfathomable, not only to Athos but to every one of them.

 

********************************************************

 

D’Artagnan is trying very hard not to argue with Aramis but damn it all he’s fed up with being coddled.

But mostly he wants out of the infirmary and Aramis is having none of it. And Porthos has threatened to restrain him bodily while Athos warned if he doesn’t stay put he’s sending him back to Paris…in shackles.

“You can’t lie on your back,” Aramis is saying but d’Artagnan is pointedly ignoring him. He’s just given himself what passes for a bath when one arm is practically useless and his hands are shaking so hard they can’t hold the soap or the rag and he just wants to lie down for a bit so he doesn’t embarrass himself by swooning. He’ll be right as rain, he tells himself firmly, if he can just rest for a few minutes…

“D’Artagnan, are you listening to me? If you insist on lying on your back again you will aggravate those last few healing wounds. Then we’ll be right where we started,” Aramis tells him firmly, helping the Gascon to sit. When he’s settled then older man sinks onto the cot across from his, the one he’s been using nightly since their return to camp.

Frustrated, d’Artagnan is actually fighting the urge to defy him when he gets a good look at his thoroughly exhausted brother.

“You look awful,” d’Artagnan notes worriedly and Aramis snorts.

“Says the man who was hanging from a ceiling beam just a few days ago,” Aramis retorts and it sounds bitter and angry and so unlike the Aramis he’s come to know and love.

D’Artagnan shrugs. “I happened, it’s over, I survived,” he says flippantly, trying to ease the tension and Aramis draws in a sharp breath, shocked.

“How can you be so nonchalant about it? That bastard did everything in his power to make you suffer cruelly and inhumanely and I was helpless to stop it!”

“Aramis, what would you prefer? That I dwell on it? That I relive every single horrifying moment over and over again until I go mad?” d’Artagnan fires back. “No, brother I won’t do that! He didn’t break me, Aramis! He hurt me physically yes, but it’ll take more than a few days of torture to break my spirit, my dear friend. Poison tried to break me too but I didn’t give in to that either. I’ve lost too much and fought too hard to be accepted as an equal by all of you, to earn my commission and to win Constance’s heart and her hand, so no, I won’t let the likes of that odious Navarro break me, brother, not now and not ever!” Every word he’s uttered is true and although his impassioned speech is for Aramis’ benefit it bolsters his own tired body and spirit as well. No, he will not be broken that easily, and Aramis should already know this.

D’Artagnan feels exhausted and shaky but Aramis looks so miserable and desolate that he fights against the desire to just lie down and close his eyes. “Come on brother,” d’Aragnan cajoles tiredly. “We’ve faced worse, why are you so troubled by this? It’s over, it’s done and with God’s grace we’re back amongst our own.”

“God played no role in our rescue,” Aramis practically snarls and the older man gets to his feet and begins to pace. “We were rescued by the determination and the strength of our Musketeer brothers and certainly not with any help from God!”

D’Artagnan feels his heart clench at Aramis’ harsh words and suddenly, it all makes sense.

“There was a moment, when I was strung up like Christmas turkey that I thought that God had forsaken us...but the moment passed. I’d like to think that God was by my side,” d’Artagnan says quietly and he clearly remembers praying that first night in his cell. Even after all he’d been through a part of him would like to believe that they survived not only due to their courage and spirit but maybe with a little divine intervention as well. “I’m not very religious and since coming to Paris I’ve lived a life of sin,” d’Artagnan continues, thoroughly embarrassed, “but when I was alone and in pain I felt comforted by the fact that I could pray and have hope that God would hear me.”

Aramis buries both hands in his hair and tugs in a gesture that d’Artagnan has come to know all too well means that his brother is frustrated or angry or maybe even a little afraid. “I prayed as well, d’Artagnan, and yet you were beaten and flogged within an inch of your life and God did nothing to stop it,” he says dully. “And it was my fault, I tried so hard to outwit that evil bastard but I couldn’t…it was either betray you or betray France, and neither was an option of course,” Aramis continues, so clearly tortured, and he turns away as if he can’t face d’Artagnan. “You were still recovering, and I encouraged Athos to allow you to accompany me…from the minute we rode out of camp everything that happened was my fault.”

It takes d’Artagnan a few shaky tries to get to his feet but when he does he takes a few steps towards Aramis and lays one hand on his arm. “Aramis, I’m a soldier, and yes, I’m less experienced than some of these men but I like to think I can hold my own and don’t need anyone to hold my hand. If that’s the case….if that’s what you all think…then maybe Athos should send me back to Paris to cower with the women and the children.”

Aramis spins around, obviously shocked at the d’Artagnan’s words and he reaches out to steady d’Artagnan who, at that moment, doesn’t feel like the fearless soldier he’s just claimed to be. He feels embarrassingly weak and fragile, but that’s just temporary he knows, his body has received the most brutal treatment imaginable but he’s still standing...even if it is with a little help from his beloved brother.

“Sit, now,” Aramis commands and he helps d’Artagnan back onto the cot and he follows suit, looking ashamed. “You are the bravest soldier I have yet to encounter, lad, sometimes too brave for your own good,” Aramis muses wryly. “Don’t ever doubt that we all know that you’ll probably be the best of us. I worry about all of you, trust me, even Porthos who thinks his size alone makes him invincible, you and Athos and Porthos are my family…and Constance of course,” he adds with a shy smile. “Remember Agnes and baby Henri? When I handed Henri back to her she said to me ‘I’d ask you to come with us but you already have a family’; she meant the four of you of course, so get used to me worrying about your health as well as your happiness.”

Aramis’ words bring an embarrassing sting of tears but he swallows them back; there’s something more important he needs to address. “Agreed, but I’d like to think that God also played a role in that as well, in bringing us all together, to be a family. And that He guided Miguel to help us, and gave me the strength to hold on…and you the courage to rebel so I wouldn’t suffer alone. You could argue that it was simply down to us, fighting to survive like we were trained to do, but Miguel felt like a true Godsend, Aramis, when I thought that I would simply die from the agony and the cold and the hunger; I wanted to _live_ , but it was Miguel who helped me to actually survive.”

“And you truly think that it was God that guided him?” Aramis questions slowly, his expression tense.

“Miguel was a good man and a pious man who believed he’d join his family in heaven some day. He was kind and merciful, and he’d helped others, not just us, so yes, I think that God was nudging him in the right direction so that his deeds would secure him a place at His right side. Now, I can’t know that for sure of course…no one can...but if I lose that tiny bit of faith that I’ve been clinging too since we left Paris, brother, well then I think I’ll be lost.”

“Porthos had a go at me as well,” Aramis admits, “when we first arrived back at camp. You were so close to death that I felt truly abandoned. I had dedicated so much of my life to my faith that I couldn’t understand why I was still being tested. You had suffered,” he says and stops to clear his throat and again d’Artagnan feels the prick of tears. “You had suffered physically and you had horrible visions of demons and death and it seemed very unfair that my prayers were not answered.”

“Aramis, I promise you, they were answered. I don’t remember everything that happened, some of it’s a blur, but those moments when you and Miguel and Senor Raoul were there for me stand out starkly, so trust me, brother, those moments of care and relief were a blessing…at least to me.”

“I’ve known you for three years and I’ve never heard you speak of religion before, at least not in such depth,” Aramis remarks curiously. “What changed?”

D’Artagnan grins. “It was you of course. That rabid dog Rochefort tried to kill you and destroy everything you loved dearest and you still offered him the last rites. I know for a fact that even though our Queen asked you not to you prayed for the bastard’s soul.”

Aramis gives him a cynical look. “Now how could you possibly know that?” he queries, one brow raised.

“Because I know you, brother, you can’t fool me, or any of us for that matter, you are too decent a man to let anyone in your presence simply slip away without the benefit of a prayer for their soul. That’s what makes you a better man than me; I was more than happy to see that traitorous son of a bitch go straight to hell where he belongs.”

“A better man than you?” Aramis asks, clearly astonished. “How can you say that when you…you invented that elaborate tale regarding my supposed parentage and my vocation to protect me…at your own expense! You have a very warped sense of self-worth my boy if you can’t see who the better man is here.” 

D’Artagnan sighs. “Aramis…”

“Don’t give me that look, it doesn’t work on me! Do you have so little regard for yourself? It’s only because you were so gravely injured that I haven’t yet taken you to task over it, you still may be on the receiving end of that spanking that Porthos has been threatening you with since arriving at the front. If I thought you were reckless in Paris, here I’ve come to the conclusion that you are stark raving mad...and that’s on a good day!” Aramis hisses angrily.

“How did this conversation switch from your crisis of faith to me being a candidate for the insane asylum?”

Aramis once again gets to his feet and begins to pace, his expression taut. “I appreciate that you thought you were doing the right thing but d’Artagnan, I have to live with the guilt of what happened to you...forever…”

“Brother, please, don’t, I’m tired and I’m in pain and I understand, you’re angry with me, but the only thing I regret about all of this is you feeling guilty or responsible for what happened after. I’m an adult, Aramis, a Musketeer, a soldier and a married man, I am fully capable of making informed decisions based on what’s best for me any given moment. If I throw myself in front of a bullet for Athos or take a beating for Porthos it will be because I choose to, not because I’m obligated to do so. I know for a fact that you and every other man in the regiment would do exactly the same thing for a fellow Musketeer. Stop treating me like I’m any different because I’m younger than most of you.”

“You’re younger than all of us you stupid boy,” Aramis counters wearily. “Even Henri, who’s just recently managed to grow a beard is older than you.”

D’Artagnan rubs at his own bearded jaw and lets out a quiet chuckle. “Speaking of which, do you think you can shave me? My hands still tremble too much for me to do it on my own.”

Aramis looks taken aback by the abrupt…and very adept change of subject but his expression softens considerably. “Ask Athos, he has a much steadier hand than I do, trust me.”

“Ask Athos what?” their Captain says, appearing seemingly from nowhere behind Aramis. 

D’Artagnan notes immediately that Athos, thankfully, seems more rested and considerably less tense than he has in the past few days.

“Ask if you can give me a shave? Maybe trim my hair a tiny bit as well.”

“I seem to recall Athos threatening to cut off all your hair just a few months back, are you sure you want him giving you a trim?” Aramis asks with a wry tilt of his head.

“I’ll do it,” Porthos chimes in, and all three of them turn to see that Porthos has entered the infirmary and he’s carrying d’Artagnan’s uniform. “Cleaned and ready to be worn,” the big man informs them and he lays the clothing and his pauldron on the empty cot behind d’Artagnan’s.

“Thanks, brother, it seems as if mending and cleaning my uniform has become a task that’s fallen to you far too many times of late,” d’Artagnan says, embarrassed, but Porthos cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“He’s worthless with a needle,” Porthos says, indicating Athos, “and you certainly don’t want Aramis doing your laundry, have you see the state of his clothes since he’s been assigned medic? If he’s got anything clean it’s because I’ve frozen my fingers off doing his washing. I’ll tidy you up, you’re starting to look like a street urchin from the Court to be honest. Besides, it’s no bother, really,” he tells d’Artagnan with sincerity and d’Artagnan, grateful, knows he means it.

“Aramis it seems as if we’ve been unfairly slighted,” Athos says seriously, but there’s a glint of real humour in Athos’ eyes that d’Artagnan hasn’t seen in a long time, maybe since Paris, and even then he can’t remember the actual time or place because so much had happened to them in those last months before his marriage, and their happy moments had been few and far between.

“It seems so,” Aramis agrees. “But no matter, as long as Porthos gets his scruffy 'street urchin’ cleaned up by supper.”

“Why, are we expecting guests?” Porthos queries, one brow raised.

“No, I just thought since d’Artagnan is feeling better he’d have his evening meal with us…and we could take a few moments to remember Lieutenant Alvarez, say a prayer for his soul,” Aramis informs them and if anyone is surprised by Aramis’ suggestion, they very wisely keep it to themselves.

D’Artagnan wants to grin, but he doesn’t, he surely does not want Aramis to think he’s feeling smug so he just nods and seconds the suggestion. He allows Porthos to pull him up from the cot and help him sit on a low barrel to wait while he fetches d’Artagnan’s shaving kit. Athos, d’Artagnan notes, has a look of rather fond contentment on his face and Aramis seems to startle, and he takes a stumbling step back. 

“Some wrong, brother?” Athos asks immediately, clearly concerned.

Aramis shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it and he says rather wryly, “A moment of déjà vu, nothing more*,” he assures their Captain as Porthos enters the tent once again carrying a small, leather bound kit. 

“If it was a few months ago, I’d need a magnifying glass to shave that baby face,” he tells d’Artagnan wickedly. “One has to wonder if you actually have any hair anywhere else.”

D’Artagnan can’t help it, he starts to laugh, a full, hearty chuckle that jars his injured shoulder but he doesn’t care, it feels wonderful to laugh like that again.* He takes an empty tin cup from ground beside him and he tosses it at Porthos who ducks just in time and grins. 

“I’d tell you to ask my wife but she’d probably slap you, Aramis can attest to the strength of that woman’s hand.”

Aramis though has once again gone silent and Athos moves forward and lays a hand on his arm. 

“Aramis, if you are unwell, please tell us,” he urges.

Aramis turns and meets d’Aragnan’s gaze and he shakes his head. “No, really, I’m fine,” he assures Athos but he’s looking at d’Artagnan strangely. 

“And if you’re fine, why are you looking at me like that?” d’Artagnan wonders, truly concerned.

“Our conversation earlier, it seems to have loosened some memories…and reminded me of what’s important,” Aramis admits.

Porthos grunts. “Well that’s good, you’ve been moping around like a boy who’d lost his dog these past few days, good to see you’re over it. I’m going to get some warm water, stay put,” he warns d’Artagnan and Athos, assured that Aramis is not unwell also takes his leave, promising to meet them for supper.

“So, go on, tell me, what really just happened?” d’Artagnan asks urgently, hoping to get a reply before Porthos returns.

Aramis takes a few steps towards him and leans over to give him a gentle hug. When he straightens, he looks considerably calmer and…lighter.

“You said God was with us back at the Abbey and I didn’t believe you, but now…now I’m inclined to think that maybe He was.”

D’Artagnan nods slowly, not quite sure what he means but he’s pleased, regardless. “What happened in these past few moments to make you change your mind?”

Aramis smiles. “He sent me a sign. Don’t ask me to explain because I can’t, but I’m think He did.”

“I won’t insist, but I’m glad, you seemed quite miserable and disillusioned and my heart ached for you, brother, truly.”

“Thank you, d’Artagnan, for helping me to see that I was wrong,” Aramis tells him and he lays one hand on the Gascon’s good shoulder and squeezes. “Remind me of this moment if it ever happens again, will you?”

“Of course, I’ll always be here for you, we’re brothers, you’re stuck with me,” d’Artagnan says, suddenly feeling shy and uncertain but not sure why.

“And you with all of us,” Aramis assures him firmly.

Porthos returns with a pitcher of water and a bowl and he looks from Aramis to d’Artagnan and frowns. “Did I miss something?”

“No my dear Porthos, just the two of us reminding each other that we’ve all got each other’s backs, right lad?”

D’Artagnan grins and feels all his doubts and fears slip away, like the cool water of a mountain stream, running sure and smooth after the first thaw, and he nods. 

“Always, brother, always.”

 

THE END...for now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes;
> 
> I have not forgotten Aramis’ vow to disembowel Navarro! I’m still trying to figure out what to do, the options are; 1) I might write it as a one shot, 2) I might write it as a full story, 3) I might come back and add it as an Epilogue. Regardless, it will be addressed in some way at some point because the idea is just too…exciting to let go ;)
> 
> *For those who might have forgotten, the lines noted with an asterisk are a reference to Aramis’ dreams/nightmares while suffering from hypothermia and holding the dying d’Artagnan in his arms. Seeing Athos’ expression of fond contentment and hearing d’Artagnan laugh at something Porthos has said seem to be a sign to him from God that He was there and that God is reminding Aramis of that fact by showing him almost those exact moments from his dream back in the prison cell, something that Aramis knows only God could be aware of :)


End file.
